


Just Because You Can Doesn't Mean You Should

by Distressedegg, tvheit



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arcade, Arnold is a DDR Champion, Attempt at Humor, Characters to be added as they appears :'), Connor is a Jerk, Crack Treated Seriously, Crocs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gallows Humor, Gen, Gnomes, Humor, M/M, Other, Pyromania, Set after Kevin's mission; no other character in this went on one as far as we know, Slow Burn, The occasional health and safety inspection, and then everything happens at once, deeply flawed characters, mild homophobia, or well enemies to slightly less enemies actually, rule of thirds, so many uses of the rules of thirds, welcome to bad pacing!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distressedegg/pseuds/Distressedegg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvheit/pseuds/tvheit
Summary: "Welcome to FunZone Arcade and Laser Tag, except the laser tag arena is still closed due to health and safety violations, half the machines are malfunctioning, and it's not very fun. So actually, welcome to Zone."In suburban Florida, there's an arcade. In said arcade, there's a guy named Kevin Price. He works minimum wage, has an exhausting rivalry with his co-worker, and owns almost no furniture in his depressing flat for one. And when you've hit rock bottom, like Kevin well and truly has, there's no other way to go but up.There's just some developing friendships, feelings, laser tag (or lack thereof), pyromania, and gnomes along the way.





	1. Orlando

**Author's Note:**

> before you start: theres several mentions of kids vomiting throughout, nothing graphic, but cleaning up vomit is a constant pain kevin and connor go through haha but if you're icky abt that then proceed with caution
> 
> This is the result of three weeks with sissi, where we let our terrifyingly stupid imaginations make a caricature of a world in the form of a depressingly funny arcade au. hope you enjoy!

Kevin Price was going to do something incredible.

He’d been the best darn Mormon his parish had ever seen, after all. And maybe that was a tiny bit conceited, acknowledging that about himself, but it was _true_. Everyone had told him that. Well, by everyone, he means his parents had, at the very least. Up until he was eighteen and they suddenly changed their tone from praise to something more along the lines of _You know Heavenly Father doesn’t like pride, don’t you darling_ and _Your own feelings and ego aren’t important in the grander scheme of things, Kevin dearest, Heavenly Father has a plan for all of us._ Still, the harsher words did nothing to deflate Kevin’s massive ego, because by that time he was off to the Missionary Training Centre, being heaped with more praise and admiration at every opportunity.

And well, even after people stopped telling him he was the smartes, best, most-deserving elder the 3rd South Salt Lake District Church had ever seen, Kevin knew he was the greatest. He was going to go to Orlando for his mission, convert tons of people into the church with his million-dollar smile and passionate teachings, have at least ten thousand baptisms, and spend every weekend at Disney World ‘proselytizing’. His mission companion would be in awe of him, and Kevin would come home to a fanfare and his family would clap and welcome him with beaming grins, saying _That’s my son!_ and _I’m gonna be just like you, bro!_ and _We love you_ s. 

Okay, so maybe his vision for the future was a little bit rose-coloured, Disney fashion. But that was alright. If you prayed to Heavenly Father, you always get what you want.

Of course, the universe had different plans, and he gets sent to Uganda. 

 

* * *

 

If asked what was the worst thing that ever happened to him, twenty-two-year-old Kevin Price would have thought,

 _“Well, you know the moment, four months into what is supposed to be the most incredible time of your life, when it hits you that everyone else around you had lost hope long ago, and even your eager mission companion - whose name you have already forgotten – is so despondent you have to pretend you can’t hear him crying himself to sleep at night? And then you do something so astoundingly_ stupid _and you see later, when you’re in the disgustingly filthy doctor’s office sobbing your eyes out, that you’ve never, ever been enough to achieve anything? And then, you spend the next twenty months burning unread letters from home out of guilt and lying through your teeth to all the higher-ups because it feels like there’s nothing left for you to live for? And finally,_ finally, _that’s all over and you get to go home but there’s really no home for you left, because the letters stopped halfway through the year and the last thing you ever got was a disappointed phone call at the airport, ending with a access to a bank account that has seven hundred dollars, the code to a safe somewhere with your legal documents in it, and nowhere to go? Well, that’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”_

That’s what he would have _thought._

“Probably when Connor set fire to my shoes while I was still wearing them. That was terrifying,” he would have said instead.

 

* * *

 

Fresh from his mission and newly disowned, Kevin Price stands in the middle of the bustling Salt Lake City airport, International Arrivals terminal. Once the initial shock of everything catches up with him, he grabs his suitcase and rushes into the first available taxi. Three hours later, he returns with everything he now owned neatly packed into the same dusty suitcase, missionary uniform shoved in a compartment. Even after two years of hell, Kevin couldn’t bring himself to throw it into the bin. He marches straight back into the Arrivals terminal, realises his mistake, rushes embarrassedly out to Departures instead, and books the next flight to Orlando.

For a while after his family’s visit when he was nine, he imagined living at Disney World - maybe even right next to it - or at least somewhere right in the heart of Orlando as soon as he was old enough to move. And after completing his mission. And then only once he’d completed his study of theology at BYU. And then only if his parents were happy with it. He was a good Mormon, after all. With this in mind, Kevin Price’s vague childhood fantasies managed to follow him through high school and church services and tri-weekly family home evenings and the MTC and Uganda and his subsequent faith-based breakdown and even now, through to an uncomfortable plane seat on a flight en-route to the place of hopes and dreams.

 _This is fine_ , he thinks in a numb and worryingly pleasant state. _Screw them anyway, they couldn’t have known how awful it was there. I’m going to my favourite place, and no one can stop me. I’ll get a weekday job and then go to the Epcot Centre and Disney World ever weekend. Heck, I’ll work for Disney World. _

_After all_ , Kevin's internal monologue continues, somehow managing to forget all prior experience with getting what he wanted, _there was no way Disney World could turn down hiring someone as great as me._

It turns out they could. Seven times, actually. Despite the two years he’d spent in Uganda being told _No_ and _Get off my doorstep_ and _If you white boys come back one more time I’m getting my gun_ , Kevin still wasn’t that used to rejection. But after the seventh polite, bordering passive-aggressive rejection letter, Kevin had to come to terms with the fact that he was running out of money _fast_.

He supposes he should have realised living in the middle of the city would cost money; a lot more than he could have hoped to make with his mesmerisingly blank resume, and definitely more than minimum wage. So, against every remnant of his childhood hope and dreams, Kevin Price started his glamourous new life in Orlando by unpacking his one suitcase in a dingy, late-70s flat that smelt like mould and disturbingly, a morgue, situated in the heart of suburbia.

 

* * *

 

Working at FunZone Arcade and Laser Tag (the latter part had been painted over on the sign out the front after the laser rink didn't pass safety regulations for three inspections in a row, thanks Gotswana) had seemed exciting for a grand total of ten minutes, until Kevin realised the constant smell of cheap food, preteen body odour and bratty children might kill him. At least his missionary training was proving itself useful for once.

“Hello, welcome to Funzone Arcade. What can I get you?” He says with a wide smile as a woman walks in with a small child in a pale pink dress.

“Can I get ten dollars worth of those tokens for the machines? And also - ”

“A slushie!” The little girl yells, interrupting her mother. Kevin thinks it’s cute. It’s the last time he thinks that children are cute for a very long while. He looks to the mother for confirmation of the order before turning and asking the girl sweetly, “What flavour would you like? We have raspberry, blue raspberry and cola."

“I want all of them. All together!” She says up to him, bouncing on her heels eagerly, eyes bright.

“I’m sorry, we can’t do that,” Kevin replies, remembering back to Naba’s strict protocol as she showed him around on his first day.

“No. I want all of them. Mommy, make him give me all of them,” She asks her mother, who just looks down at her, frowns, and nonchalantly says, “Do what the nice man says, Sarah.” 

Sarah, in response, runs around the counter and kicks Kevin in the shins. Kevin is vaguely surprised at the force behind her kick as he sinks to the floor with a yelp and cradles his leg. 

 

* * *

 

"You get used to it," The guy working the midday shift with him says comfortingly when he finds Kevin curled up in a ball, sniffling between the dumpsters around the back of the arcade during his lunch break.

“The horrible children or the depressing lack of options for the future?” 

“Neither. I lied.”

Kevin chokes a surprised laugh out from where his head is buried into his arms. He glances up at the other man, looking at him properly for the first time.

“Do you need anything?” the man, who’s more like a boy, really, with his wide eyes and filled-out cheeks that are dusted with freckles, asks. He’s not skinny but he looks fragile, with bright blue eyes, a shock of curly ginger hair and the palest complexion Kevin has ever seen with faint sunburn scars on his arms and legs. Amusement twinkles in his eyes. When Kevin doesn’t reply, He continues, “Some water? A hug? Financial stability and a way out of this depressing lifestyle?" The financial stability part actually sounded good, but he and the other man both knew that it was just a joke, an ironic jab at their own misfortune.

“No - it’s okay, sorry. I’ll be back inside in a minute.” Kevin mumbles, sniffing hard to get rid of snot build up in his nose. 

“It's fine, take your time. We’ve all had our fair share of breakdowns. We work in Floridian suburbia, after all,” He says, and laughs a little at his own depreciating comment. Kevin’s seen this guy around a few times in the week he’s had the job. He comes in half an hour late, usually works the same shift as him, and is probably good friends with their manager Nabulungi. Or at least, comfortable around her to constantly antagonise her and not get fired. Actually, the more Kevin thinks about it, the more probable that seems. He looks back to the man, who’s reaching a hand out to Kevin, and Kevin’s not sure if he’s trying to help him stand up or offering him a handshake. “I’m Connor, by the way.”

Kevin doesn’t take the hand. His eyes wander away from the guy – no, Connor’s face to give him an unconscious once over. His hair is too perfect to be natural (Kevin of all people would know about that), his jeans are too tight, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that makes Kevin ask unwittingly, “Are you gay?”

Connor smiles down at him coyly. “Mhm. Why’re you asking?”

He’s pretty, with high cheekbones and dark eyelashes contrasting his curly ginger hair. Kevin thinks it’s a shame that he’s going to hell. Connor has a nice smile; he probably would have been a good missionary. If there’s anyone worth saving in this godforsaken suburb, it’s got to be him. And maybe he’ll be able to make up for his failure of a mission in Uganda, too, if he can help this guy away from a life of sin.

“You don’t have to go to hell, you know,” Connor’s expression sours slightly. It clearly wasn’t what he was expecting. “The Lord can help you. If you let him,” Kevin continues, stumbling over the words he still believes in, some days more than others. Just so happened, today was one of those days.

“Oh honey,” Connor laughs, raising an eyebrow at him, “If either of us needs help, it’s definitely not me.” 

And Kevin, with his tear stained face, can sort of see the irony in trying to give advice whilst curled up against a dumpster in the back alley of an arcade. The missionary training centre never prepared him for this.

“So, what are you then? If you believe gays burn in hell. Roman Catholic? Jehovah’s Witness? 16th Century Puritan?” The man asks when Kevin doesn’t respond.

“I’m, uh, I’m Mormon,” Kevin responds, suddenly very uncomfortable with the situation and unsure whether he’s being made fun of or not.

“Oh! No way!” Connor exclaims, and it worries Kevin slightly how excited this man he just told was going to hell is about his faith. “I was raised Mormon.”

Kevin’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth hangs open a little bit, and he would be more concerned with how much he probably looks like a fish if he wasn’t so surprised that this guy - who from what Kevin can tell, is the epitome of everything a Mormon isn’t - was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Not that Kevin currently isn’t in the same boat. 

“Oh. Uh. Cool. And you’re not anymore?” He asks, for lack of anything better. 

Connor looks at him incredulously and responds by gesturing towards himself, saying “take a guess.”

Yeah, Kevin thinks. That was dumb. He sighs instead and Connor’s expression changes into something that Kevin can’t interpret, something like pitying disgust and amusement mashed into one. It’s the first time he seen such an expression, never mind directed at him, and Kevin feels a growing urge to disappear into himself and cease existing. He also feels the need to defend himself, a prickle at the back of his throat growing more insistent until Connor finally clears his throat and shakes his head, looking at his wrist.

“Would you look at the time,” He mock gasps, before smiling at Kevin. There’s no watch on his wrist. His smile does not reach his eyes. Kevin refrains from saying anything, just barely.

“I’ll leave you to your pity party then, Elder Perfect,” Connor says casually, and ice shoots through Kevin’s veins. Uganda flashes in his mind strongly, and raw anger bubbles up in him. Kevin wants to scream at Connor, scream _you have no idea you heathen you would never have an idea of what I’ve been through what I’ve done –_

The back door swings shut. Kevin hisses like a kettle in the vague direction of it, scaring a passing cat that scuttles into the next-door café. Muted shouts and meows follow, but Kevin doesn’t hear them.

 

* * *

 

“A kid threw up in the air hockey goals,” Connor tells him when he finally walks back inside looking more or less like he wasn’t just crying on the ground. “There’s a bucket and a cloth in the store room and you can fill it up in the bathroom.”

“Why do I have to clean it?" 

“I’m busy. And you’re new,” Connor tells him, not looking up from where he’s playing candy crush and eating a packet of pretzels he’s taken from the food counter. Kevin gapes at him for a moment, before storming off to get the bucket.

Kevin Price was going to do something incredible, and by that he means one day punching Afternoon-Shift-Gay-Ex-Mormon-Connor in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're hoping to write several chapters, sorry that this is slightly angsty to begin with but we gotta world build rip trust me it gets weirder
> 
> if you have any questions/want to beta some chapters, come talk to us on tumblr at @egg-o or @tvheit!!


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (nifty) daily life of Kevin Price, employee extraordinaire.

“I almost didn’t take this job when I saw the shirts we had to wear,” Connor mutters beside him, disdainfully picking off lint balls from his FunZone polo.

They’re stationed behind the front counter, waiting for the kids they know won’t be coming in on a weekday at 9am. It’s the first thing Connor has said to Kevin since his breakdown that hasn’t made him want to move straight back to Utah, which is a surprise. He also hasn’t mentioned what happened the other day. Kevin doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“What do you mean? I reckon the shirts are pretty nifty,” He replies, causing Connor to turn his attention to him, looking up in disgust at Kevin’s bright-blue-with-orange-accents polo, funzone logo neatly embroidered on the left.

“Please don’t say ‘nifty’ ever again in your life.” Connor says, appalled. Kevin glares back at him.  
  
“Why do you think you’re so much better than me?”  
  
“Because you say things like ‘nifty’.”  
  
“It’s not hard to be nice, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, but if I was, you might think I want to be friends with you, and we can’t have that. I don’t want to have to quit this job just yet.”  
  
“Has anyone ever told you you’re awful?”  
  
“That doesn’t sound like a very Mormon thing to say,” Connor says. Kevin glares harder.  
  
“You’re an exception. Besides, I’m not even Mormon anymore.”  
  
“Yesterday you told me I was going to hell.”  
  
“People’s beliefs can change, Connor.”  
  
“It’s been -” Connor pretends to check the time on his non-existent wrist watch, “- less than twelve hours.”  
  
Kevin doesn’t have a reply to that. He huffs and turns towards the front door, wishing for a customer to come in and interrupt their conversation. Or a meteorite to hit them and abolish their existence. He isn’t picky.  
  
“Don’t ignore me. You know I’m right.”  
  
“Right about what?” Kevin asks, slightly aggravated and genuinely confused at when their idle small talk turned into an argument. Maybe that's a side effect of being around Connor McKinley; constant debate practice.  
  
“I don’t know. Something. The important thing is that I’m right,” Kevin wants to scream. He wants to throw him, stupid face and all, into the slushie machine and quit his job and run away again to somewhere, _anywhere_ , because even that is better than manning a ticket counter with Connor McKinley. He looks at Connor, idiotic smirk still plastered on his paper white face, with the intention of telling him to shove it and then some.

Two seconds of silence.

“I’m going to the toilet,” Kevin finally says instead, because he thinks he might have a conniption if he stays.

 

* * *

 

“Your name tag should arrive sometime this week, and you’ll be able to wear it as soon as you graduate from being a trainee. You seem like a quick learner, so it shouldn’t take that long.” Naba had said to him on his first day after handing him his work polo and ‘TRAINEE’ name tag.  
  
Kevin doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove, or to whom, but he knows he really wants to earn his name badge before it arrives.  
  
By the second week of working at the arcade, Kevin starts to get nervous. Naba hasn’t mentioned anything to do with his trainee status since the day he was hired. Ever the dramatic one, Kevin’s immediate thought is that he must be failing miserably at his job in the eyes of his manager. Maybe he’s the worst employee they’ve ever had. Maybe Naba’s just trying to find a reason to fire him. Maybe he should just-  
  
“Kevin, calm down,” Naba tells him after he bursts into her office, heaving desperately and asking what he’s doing wrong, “You work with Connor. Are you really that concerned about not being a star employee? Next to him you’re like Mother Teresa. Your badge just hasn’t turned up.”

Her voice goes softer, and Kevin remembers to breathe. “The company we ordered it from has kind of gone AWOL. I think we got scammed,” She continues, sharp annoyance in her voice.  
  
“Oh. So… you’re not going to fire me?” Naba looks at him incredulously.  
  
“Fire you? Kevin, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that Connor is lying face down on the floor behind the food counter eating something he hasn’t paid for. If I haven’t fired him, then why the hell would I fire you?”  
  
“That’s- thanks. Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Okay. Cool. Cool,”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. This is cool. Cool. Cool.” Kevin has not broken eye contact with her since entering the room. Naba would be worried, but only if she could be bothered to put up with his antics.  
  
“If you say ‘cool’ one more time I _will_ fire you,” She cuts him off sharply. Kevin’s eyes widen in worry and he looks like he might just burst into tears before Naba hurriedly tells him, “I’m just kidding. You’re great. I’m glad we have you here.”  
  
It might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to him since he left his mission companion at Kampala International Airport. His good mood is, however, ruined as soon as he walks back out into the arcade.  
  
“Kissing her ass won’t make her like you,” Connor says from where he’s lying on the floor behind the food counter with his hand in the gummy-worm bucket. Kevin isn’t sure if he had actually heard his conversation with Naba or just assumed he was going in there to suck up to her. “You have to actually be enjoyable to be around for that.”  
  
“She seems to like you.”  
  
“That’s -” Connor pauses to think, “That’s actually a fair point. You’re getting better at this.”  
  
“What?” Kevin asks as he makes his way over to Connor. Connor sits up and offers him a gummy worm, which Kevin ignores. He’s the good employee, after all.  
  
“Arguing. You never would have come back with something like that a week ago,” Kevin doesn’t know whether he should take the comment as offense or a compliment.  
  
“Do you just argue with people for fun?”  
  
“Of course I do, what else am I supposed to do around here? The claw machines?”  
  
“Maybe you could try doing your job.” Kevin chastises, moving the gummies out of Connor’s reach and putting the lid on it. Connor whines and stretches out his arms, making grabby hands to try and reach it without moving.  
  
“Fuck you,” He says when he realises he’s going to have to get up if he wants to keep eating. Kevin flinches at the curse.  
  
“Oh my god, you’re scared of swearing,” Connor says like he’s just made the best discovery of his life. and Kevin tries not to flinch again at the blasphemy. He fails.

“This is great,” Connor says before dissolving into giggles. Kevin decides to take his usual approach of dealing with Connor, which is to walk away, station himself on the other side of the arcade and pretend to not hear Connor still laughing, before he does something very un-Mormon, like asking Heavenly Father to strike him with lightning, or punching him in the face.

Punching Connor in the face seems to have become a very strong emotional urge as of late.

 

* * *

 

For the next three or four weeks, every day is more or less the same. Kevin clocks in at 7 am, goes to the break room and changes into the blue polo, clips on his ‘TRAINEE’ name tag, and climbs over the boarded-up laser tag entrance to get to Nabulungi _'Call me Naba'_ Hatimbi’s office (which, legally, should not be accessible) for briefing, since he’s still technically new. She greets him by spinning around smartly in her swivel chair, which is the only chair in the room. Kevin just stands for the entire brief. After that, he exits to find that Connor most likely has shown up, on time by Connor standards but late by everyone else’s. From there, the day gets exponentially worse.

It often consists of swapping between manning the ticket, prize, and food counters and cleaning up after whatever chaos some preteen child had caused. Kevin has had to clean vomit out of the ball pit so many times that he’s pretty sure the kids just do it to spite him now. Connor probably pays them.

Kevin gets his lunch break at 1pm, where he either sits outside despondently at the dumpsters with a plastic-tasting wiener on a stick that he nicked from the roller machine, or inside the break room staring at the flaking paint on the walls. Sometimes Nabulungi joins him, and they have a conversation about nothing. Naba is extremely nice and kind, Kevin learns, but she also could probably snap his arms off if he ever did anything wrong. Kevin grows to like her a lot, and he hopes that one day they could maybe be friends in the same way her and Connor are.

After lunch, there’s a blissful hour that he spends by himself at the counter while Connor goes to have his own lunch break. It’s easily the best time of his day, because he’s got things to do to keep his mind off his own pathetic life and there is no Connor present. Their lunch breaks are technically half an hour long, but Connor always disappears for much longer. Kevin doesn’t care. He can handle things himself, and it’s not as if Connor is a great asset to keeping the place running. Sometimes he wonders how FunZone hadn’t fallen to pieces before he arrived. Every so often, Kevin’s underlying narcissism rears its beautiful head, and he feels good about himself. _I’m the only one here doing any stuff_ , he would think, then smile triumphantly. On those days, even Connor’s snark doesn’t really affect him. Kevin is nothing if not useful, and he’ll be darned if he doesn’t at least get employee of the month.

Since that there are only four currently employed workers, two of which Kevin has never seen or heard of, it’s not a terribly great achievement. But hey, sometimes it’s the petty little victories that count.

The afternoon is often uneventful, with Kevin doing much the same thing as the morning except he runs into Connor more often, who has made it his personal life goal to antagonise Kevin as much as humanly possible.

“Kevin, this lil’ gal here wants a slushie. Take her order and try not to get kicked in the shins, will you?”

“Cabin, could you blow up all five hundred of these balloons? Oh, no, we don’t have a pump. I can’t do it because I don’t have a mouth. And my break starts now.”

“Oh, good afternoon, Calvin Klein. Shame your fashion doesn’t match your looks, but I guess your homophobia negates the chance of you ever being an icon anyway.”

Alright, so maybe some things he deserved. But Kevin’s changed, he hopes. He hadn’t said anything about Connor’s, well, _condition_ since their first meeting. He’s even been nice on some occasions, and he’s covered for Connor’s lazy tendencies many times. However, Connor is the dictionary definition of petty, all petulant and smirking and aggravating just because he can.

Kevin might not be a good person. But Connor? Connor is definitely an awful human being.

In the evenings on weekdays, they close up at around 9pm. Kevin leaves early though, at around six. He changes, waves to Naba, glares daggers at the back of Connor’s fluffy hair, and clocks out. He gets into a very, very volatile minivan that he got off Craigslist when he got his first weekly pay check, and prays to God that he makes it home in one piece.

‘Home’ is a very badly designed flat from the 70’s, with the tiniest kitchen on his left as soon as he walks in and the one, constantly damp smelling bathroom on the right. The doors crash into each other constantly in the small space, so there’s chipped paint and wood on his floor constantly. Some other tenant had installed a decorative flamingo on his kitchen counter for no apparent reason. It’s tiny, and it’s the first place Kevin’s ever owned. He doesn’t even have the energy to hate it anymore.

 

* * *

 

When he bought the flat, Kevin was so desperate that he didn’t really read past _‘One person flat, furnished-’_ before he was settling the rent. Upon arrival, it became very obvious that it wasn’t fully furnished, and after further consultation of the flyer, Kevin finds out that only the bedroom had furniture in it - which consisted of a bed, a rickety table stand, and a washing machine. Too tired and too poor to bother complaining, Kevin just unpacked and fell asleep.

The next morning, as he was about to leave for his job interview with Naba, he spots two milk crates thrown to the side of the road. A stroke of genius hits him, and he grabs the milk crates and drags them back inside.

He leaves again five minutes later, smiling proudly to himself as he walks to the bus stop, two milk crates now arranged in his tiny living space with the words ‘TABLE’ and ‘CHAIR’ written across them.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is normally whatever canned food was on sale at the supermarket that day. He eats it straight out of the can with the plastic cutlery he’s ‘borrowed’ from FunZone, sitting on a milk crate and staring out the dirty window. The apartment complex is near a stretch of desert and he’s on the ground floor, so there’s a magnificent view of rocks, sand, the occasional shrubbery, and more rocks. For the first few nights, Kevin found it mildly interesting. After a while, it just became depressing; another reminder of why Orlando is, contrary to popular belief, not just made up of Disney World.

After that, he takes a shower and prays yet again that the water doesn’t suddenly turn brown like it did the first time he showered. The day often ends with him accidentally crashing his doors together again, staring at the new flakes of pain on the floor vacantly, and then going to his bedroom. His entire life, Kevin would pray to Heavenly Father every night to get sent to Orlando, but now that he is actually here, living in the worst timeline, nightly prayers just seemed like a ripoff. By 8pm, Kevin Price is in bed, getting his much needed nine and a half hours of sleep, dreaming of an ideal life without Connor McKinley.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the support omg we're both so so happy that people like this fun au :') we're both not writers by a long shot, but we do want to get the plot of this au out there so hopefully it keeps progressing and it motivates us so much to keep writing when people actually support it!! 
> 
> as always, we're on tumblr at @egg-o and @tvheit to talk abt this au and other stuff to do with it


	3. Crocs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opinions are acted upon. Also, Arnold Cunningham.

 “Kevin, what are those?” Connor asks him, eyes wide with horror, as soon as he walks into the break room that morning. Kevin glares at him. Connor is never on time, but today they have two birthday parties to set up for so Naba had persuaded (read: threatened) him to be on time for once.

“What are what?” He grumbles, turning to one of the dilapidated lockers.  
  
“Those, on your feet.” A disgusted hand wave in the general direction of Kevin’s toes.  
  
“You mean my shoes?”  
  
“Kevin, those aren’t shoes, they’re an _abomination_.”  
  
“What?” Kevin says with a hint of defensiveness is his voice, “They’re comfortable, breezy, and I don’t even need to wear socks with them unless it’s cold,” He’s getting that general aggravation that one gets by hanging around Connor McKinley, but most of all he’s slightly confused at how anyone could not like crocs.

Connor makes a face like someone just dumped a bucket of angry worms on him.  
  
“I hate you and I hate every decision you’ve ever made that led you to end up here.”  
  
“Because of my shoes?” Kevin asks tensely, unsure if Connor was just making fun of crocs because it was Kevin wearing them, or if he really had a grudge against rubbery footwear in general. Connor presses his face into his hands and lets out a muffled scream.  
  
“What sins did I commit in a past life to deserve you as a co-worker?”  
  
“You know you sin on a daily basis, right?” Kevin replies, choosing to latch onto the least offensive part of that sentence.  
  
“Fuck off, no I don’t,” Connor snaps back, running a hand through his hair and giving Kevin’s feet a venomous glare, “Plus, I have a damn migraine; I shouldn’t have to deal with you right now. Give me the crocs.”

Kevin blinks, freezing mid-flinch from the swear.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your crocs. Give them to me.”  
  
“No, I’m not giving you my shoes. I need them.”  
  
“Nobody has or will _ever_ need fluorescent orange crocs. For anything. Anywhere. At any time. Now give them here.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Kevin.”  
  
“No.”

“ _Kevin.”_

 

* * *

 

“Kevin, where are your shoes?” Naba asks when she walks out of her office to see Kevin restocking the prize cabinet in bare feet, concern lacing her words.  
  
“Connor set them on fire.”  
  
“He did _what_?”  
  
“He jumped me, took my shoes, covered them in gasoline, and set them on fire out the back while he made me watch,” Kevin’s voice definitely does _not_ crack at the thought of the recent fate of his shoes.  
  
“Kevin, Connor looks like he’s scarcely over a hundred pounds. How the hell did he manage that?”  
  
“He’s... kind of terrifying when he’s passionate about something. And apparently, he feels strongly about crocs.” Naba stares at him.  
  
“You were wearing crocs? Kevin, are things going okay for you? I’m here if you need to talk,” She says, looking even more concerned. Kevin feels a flutter in his chest; it’s nice to have someone again that cares about his well-being, even if he’s unsure what the cause for worry is.  
  
“What? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong with crocs?” Kevin asks, genuinely confused. Naba looks like she’s halfway between worried and disgusted. Kevin gets a momentary flash of panic that he might just get fired over a pair of shoes.

“You know what?” Naba finally says, looking away from Kevin, “Baba left a pair of his shoes in my office months ago. I don’t think he’s coming back for them. You take them. They’re behind the grey cabinet at the back,” She continues, smiling pityingly at Kevin, then patting him on the shoulder and continuing on towards the break room. Kevin stares at her, grateful but still very, very confused.

“Thanks, Naba,” He calls after her.

“For Connor’s sake, and yours as well, maybe don’t wear crocs to work again,” She replies cheerily. Kevin sighs. He doesn’t get them at all.

 

* * *

 

Connor, Kevin realises, comes to work hungover sometimes. How he does it, Kevin has no idea. He can barely stand the kids yelling at each other and the flashing lights of the games on a good day.

But every so often he’ll come into work late, announce to Kevin that he’s dying, and then proceed to lie on the floor behind the ticket counter.

“Do you want to - I don’t know - do your job maybe?” Kevin asks the figure currently laid out on the floor after the fourth time he almost trips over him.

“It’s 10am on a Wednesday, there’s no one here, I don’t have a job to do." 

“Why don’t you try telling that to Naba next time you ask her for an advance on your pay check?”

“Let her fire me.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“Exactly. Why do you think I’m on the floor?”

Kevin just sighs and goes back to refilling the slushie machine.

“Why did you come to Orlando?” Connor asks after a while. Kevin stares at the toxic-colored blue liquid he’s about to pour into the container.

“My family and I road tripped down here from Utah when I was nine. It was the greatest thing that happened to me during my sheltered Mormon upbringing,” He explains between measuring out the syrup to go into the machine, “And as I grew up I always dreamed of, I don’t know, living at Disney World or something. Then my mission happened, and I saw a guy get shot in the face on my first day, and then I got assaulted by a Ugandan warlord, and I’ve just kind of been having a crisis of faith ever since. I don’t really want to leave the church, but my parents made me leave my home. They thought I could never be a part of their perfect Mormon family ever again. At least, it sounded pretty final to me.”

“Oh.”

Kevin thinks his candidness might have spooked the other man, and so he returns the question to try and bring back some of their stilted, not quite casual small talk. “How’d you end up here?”

“Florida born and raised. I moved up from Miami last year for a change of scenery but it turns out the rest of this state is just as boring. I’m trying to save up to move again.”

“Where would you go?”

“I dunno. New York? San Francisco? Soviet Russia?”

“You know Soviet Russia is more of a time period than a place, right?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“To get to mid-twentieth century Socialist Russia?”

“Everyone has their dreams, Kevin.”

“O-kay, well, I’m going to go mop up that weird puddle in the bathroom. Have fun with -” Kevin gestures vaguely to where Connor is lying on the ground tearing up old prize tickets, “- that.”

 Kevin disappears into the storeroom before Connor can grunt out a reply. He keeps vacantly ripping apart the tickets instead. A few minutes later, the door opens, and the bell perched at the top rings cheerily. Connor doesn’t look up from his meticulous pile of torn up prize tickets.

"Welcome to FunZone Arcade and Laser Tag, except the laser tag arena is still closed due to health and safety violations, half the machines are malfunctioning, and it's not very fun. So actually, welcome to Zone,” He drawls. _Whoever it is can fuck off_ , Connor thinks absentmindedly. His head is still pounding, and if the terrible blend of arcade game music wasn’t helping then there was no way some pre-pubescent teen was going to be welcome. Naba could kill him for this after.

“Great! Nice to see you again, Con,” a familiar, cheery voice sounds from over him. Connor blinks, before rolling over suddenly to face a pair of white sneakers. He looks up, before breaking into an surprised grin.

“Hey Arnold.”

 

* * *

 

Arnold Cunningham, Kevin learns upon coming back from attacking the weird bathroom stain, is a frequent arcade-goer whose parents live overseas. He’s heavy-set, constantly cheerful, and for some unfathomable reason wearing a winter vest on the cusp of Floridian summer. His glasses are crooked, and Kevin resists the urge to straighten them out.

“Hey!” Arnold says, gripping Kevin’s hand eagerly and shaking it with gusto as soon as Kevin comes within his reach. “Connor’s told me all about you.” Kevin blinks, surprised.

“He has?”

“No, I just said that so you’d relax and shake my hand back. Didn’t work though,” Arnold continues, shrugging, and Kevin realises his hand is just flapping in the other man’s grip. He quickly returns the shake. “I haven’t spoken to Con in like. Two months.” Arnold says, finally relaxing his hold. There’s an easy-going confidence around him, and Kevin feels himself relaxing as well, although another part of him is frantically ringing alarms for some reason. Even Connor, who was complaining on the floor a moment ago, is now sitting upright at the very least, smiling. Kevin feels anger pang in his chest. Connor never smiles at him.

“Arnold’s been visiting his parents for the past two months – they live somewhere in Asia, I think,” Connor explains, and Arnold nods, still smiling. Kevin wonders fleetingly if there was something wrong with his mouth.

“Mom’s in Cambodia, Dad’s in Hong Kong. They’re not divorced, just work separated,” Arnold continues on from Connor. Kevin gets the feeling that those words have been said many times, over and over. He looks back at Arnold, a part of him feeling sorry and another part of him, deep down, feeling jealous. Luckily, a more burning question was in his mind. Looking at Arnold properly, he can’t really imagine why someone like him would even come to FunZone, which was, for lack of better description, downright awful.

“Nice to meet you,” Kevin replies, straight to the point, “Why do you come here? No offense, but the only people who ‘frequent’ this arcade are ten-year old boys who want to pretend they’re race-car drivers and gambling addicted children who scream at the crane machines. You’re what – my age?” No one has ever said that Kevin Price was the master of tact, and no one was about to start now.

Arnold, to his credit, laughs. Kevin bristles a bit, although he can’t explain why. Maybe overexposure to Connor McKinley led to paranoid tendencies.

“I turned twenty last month,” Arnold grins knowingly. Kevin realises his grin is starting to get on his nerves a bit. “This is the only arcade with the game I play. Speaking of which, Con, did you say the machines were breaking?” He says, looking down at Connor inquisitively. Connor shrugs.

“I exaggerated - didn't know it was you. Only the basketball game is wrecked, some kid managed to jam the hoop with a nerf dart. Don’t ask how; I don’t know the answer.” Arnold’s smile widens. His eyes light up in excitement, and he pulls out a wallet.

“Hey, Kev, can I get a hundred dollars’ worth of tokens?” He asks, and Kevin’s eyes widen at the easy way he holds out the note and the sudden nickname.

“You want _what?”_ He repeats, unsure if he had managed to hear half the sentence wrongly. While a hundred dollars worth of tokens was alarming in itself, no one's given Kevin a nickname since - since his siblings. _Connor_ , his mind helpfully supplies, but Kevin grabs that part of his brain and shoves it into a vault. Insults don't count. 

“I’ll be here in town for the rest of the year, saves you the trouble of having to ring me up every time I come through,” Arnold clarifies, and Kevin takes the note numbly. He taps the amount into the register, and reaches under the counter to pull out stacks of ten tokens each. He counts out ten of those, and pushes them across the counter to Arnold, who gives him a cheery “Thanks!” before going to the back of the arcade. Kevin stares after his retreating back, unsure of what just happened.

“He has that confounding effect on people. First time I met him I thought he was on drugs,” Connor says from the floor, where he had resumed his ticket-tearing. Kevin can’t help but feel inclined to agree. “Turns out he’s just a genuinely nice person.”

A cheesy techno beat starts up from the back of the arcade. Connor makes another pitiful whine from the floor, clutching his head at the sound. The edges of Kevin’s mouth twitch into a smile. Call him a bad person, but there’s something very enjoyable about causing Connor misfortune. _It’s just because it's karma_ , Kevin tells himself as he leaves to sort out the storeroom, definitely _not_ kicking Connor on his way past.

The angry, muffled curse he hears is so rewarding that Kevin doesn’t even flinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant say enough how happy we both are that people are reading this man like that shits gotten me emotional i'll get snove to write a proper endnote later bc i know approximately 5 english words
> 
>  
> 
> Hi it’s me snove idk why hei wants me writing a note it took me three tries to spell my name right BUT thank u all so much for reading and being supportive and all ur lovely comments it’s honestly so nice to come here and see u all enjoying it. Sorry for treating Kevin like shit things get better he gets gnomes we promise
> 
> as always, we're @egg-o and @tvheit on tumblr :') thank you for supporting this self-indulgent hellhole!


	4. Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clean up.

From then onwards, Arnold Cunningham comes to the arcade every morning like clockwork, waving to Kevin on his way in and casually stepping over Connor if he was on the floor. Kevin never really paid attention to what it was that Arnold was even doing there, but it was hard to miss him. Arnold seemed to fill up every room he entered; little kids came up to him when he was wandering around the arcade – probably waiting for that one game he liked to play to be free – and talked to him easily, laughing. He also had a habit of greeting every single person he saw, which resulted in many parents looking up from their phones and smiling, tight-lipped and uncertainly at Arnold. He didn’t seem to mind though, Kevin observed. Once, Kevin filled up a room in the same way Arnold did. But things happen, and now Kevin isn’t sure if he has enough presence to fill a cup.

“Everyone, listen up!” Naba barks to the room. It’s 7 AM and every single staff member on shift is in the break room, called there for an emergency meeting. And by every single staff member on shift, Kevin means him, Connor, Naba herself, and for some inexplicable reason, Arnold. Naba pauses to adjust her hair, which she has done up into two very fluffy space buns. Kevin unconsciously brushes his own floppy fringe out of his eyes.

“I’ve put in an appeal to re-open the laser tag arena,” Naba says, evidently excited, “So they’re sending over a health and safety inspector this morning at ten to check it out. If he passes us, we’re good to start the re-opening. If he doesn’t, he can have fun in the dumpsters out back,” She says cheerily, and Kevin hears himself audibly gulp. Naba is, without a doubt, the scariest person he has ever met.

“So, boss, what’re we supposed to do?” Connor asks, and Naba nods sagely at him.

“You and Kevin go in there and make it as clean as possible.”

“Naba, with all due respect, we have a vacuum cleaner, not an instantaneous rat exterminator. Do you know how many other tiny rodent heartbeats I can hear on the way to your office?” Connor says, sounding slightly agitated, and Kevin can’t help but agree. His early morning trips through the boarded-up arena to briefings with Naba often involved the unsettling presence of lots of squeaking and rustling. Naba fixes him with an unimpressed glare.

“Connor McKinley, you go in there and you get those vermin. Should be an easy task for you, since you’re just like one of them.”

“Oh my god. Naba, did you really just call me a rat?” Kevin can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him at Connor’s betrayed expression. Naba rolls her eyes.

“Did I stutter, boy?” She says, one eyebrow raised. Connor makes an affronted sound. “I’ll man the front today. Go clean up, both of you. At least one round of the vacuum.”

“I’m older than you,” Connor mutters under his breath as he exits, and Naba cuffs him on the ear.

 

* * *

 

While it’s always nice to see Connor being forced to do things he doesn’t want to do (in this case, sullenly dragging the vacuum cleaner to the back where the half boarded up entrance to the laser tag arena is), Kevin is not looking forward to having to actually go into the area. They both have torchlights, a broom, a vacuum cleaner, and some kind of insecticide spray that Connor had grabbed, proclaiming it better than nothing.

“If you sprayed this enough times at a rat it’ll probably drop dead anyway,” He says, shaking the container to check the contents. Kevin shrugs.

“You could just suck up the rats and then throw the whole vacuum away,” he replies, and Connor looks at him, half intrigued and half disturbed.

“Kevin, why would you even think of doing that to poor Henry?”

Kevin looks down at the vacuum, which is bright red with two large sticker eyes and a smile stuck onto it. The word ‘HENRY’ is stuck onto the lid in a similar fashion. He wisely decides not to ask any questions.

“Henry can deal,” He says, kicking the brooms under the slats. A squeak and faint scuttling is heard from the other side. Ignoring it, Kevin pushes away the curtain that covered the entrance and climbs through the slats. Connor picks the vacuum up with some difficulty and attempts to shove it through after him. Kevin manages to pull in the nozzle, and soon Henry is clattering onto the floor (thankfully, inside the arena) as they both overbalance. Connor climbs in moments after, grumbling.

“Henry’s been working here longer than you or I have, Kevin. He answers to _no one_.”

“Henry is a vacuum cleaner.”

“A vacuum cleaner with rights, just like you and me.”

Kevin has nothing to respond with, so he just picks up a broom and turns on the torchlight.

“Huh.”

They’re in a small, dusty room, racks covering the walls. A few monitors that look about a decade old are strung up on the wall. There’s two doors, one that leads to Naba’s office that Kevin knows well, and another that he’s never really seen before, since it’s normally shrouded in darkness. There’s no signs of life yet, but Kevin doesn’t let down his guard. Instead, he plugs Henry into a grimy socket.

“This is not what I was expecting,” He finally announces, “It’s a lot smaller than I thought it would be.”

“That’s just the pre-game room,” Arnold’s voice floats in from the arcade. He’s feeding his tokens into some obnoxiously loud music machine. “The real arena is through the other door, it’s much larger and has two levels.”

“Oh.” Kevin says.

He turns to look at the door. Then at each Connor, who looks like he’s mirroring Kevin’s face of solid denial.

“You know what? Let’s just do this one first,” Connor says, and Kevin nods quickly.

After a solid ten minutes of Kevin trying to fit Henry’s nozzle under the racks and Connor brushing down dust and cobwebs from the corners onto him, Kevin gives up. He switches Henry off and turns just in time to see Connor’ dirty broom in hand, mid-reach for Kevin’s head.

“Stop it,” He grumbles, and Connor giggles, before resuming his careless brushing of the racks.

“This is really, _really_ boring,” Connor says after a short period of silence.

“Hm.”

“There’s literally no hope of passing anyway, don’t know why Naba keeps insisting on calling in that doctor dude when it’s the literal set of Ratatouille in there.”

“Hm.”

“And even then, where the hell is Naba going to get the money to renovate it? She can’t give me a pay rise but she _can_ refurbish and entire laser tag arena, talk about fairness – Kevin, you’ve been staring into space for the past twenty seconds. Should I be worried?”

Kevin sighs, and slowly shifts his gaze from a fixed point in the air to Connor.

“Do we actually have to go in there?” He asks, tired. Kevin doesn’t know why he’s tired. He always sleeps for a good nine and a half hours.

Connor shrugs. On an average, working at FunZone increases your rate of shrugging as a response to a question by a solid 250%.

“Naba said we have to, so I guess we’ll go in, leave Henry running so she thinks we’re doing work, swing the broom around a bit, try not to have the upper level fall down on us, and then leave announcing that we’ve both gotten bitten by radioactive rats so she gives us the day off,” He says, and Kevin nods dumbly.

“I’m just not great in dark areas,” He blurts out before he can stop himself. Connor raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh for god’s sake, Kevin. You’ll be fine. I was scared of coming out for ten years until I realised that the worst thing that could happen to me was death.”

“That… is not as reassuring a sentence as you think it may sound,” Kevin says slowly. Connor rolls his eyes.

“We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“At this rate, I’m not going to experience either,” Kevin groans in resignation, heart sinking. Connor ignores his complaining.

“We also, luckily, have flashlights. Now let’s go in, I’m in the mood to maul some rats.”

 

* * *

 

After a good two hrs consisting of the occasional argument, Henry’s wire running out and Kevin tripping over it, Connor shrieking and spraying rats while chanting lines from _The Exorcist_ , and more near-death situations than Kevin would have ever liked, they both crash into the door frame in their haste to get out.

“One round on the vacuum, my fucking _ass_. I nearly broke my neck on that ramp,” Connor swears, and Kevin gives him a disapproving stare as best he can, still trying to recover from putting his foot clean through a hole on the first level and losing ten years of his life.

“Don’t swear, it’s not good form.” Connor dusts off his shirt and gives Kevin the middle finger, to which Kevin responds by sticking out his tongue. It has about the same effect as light mist spraying a bushfire would.

“Stop being a prude. Dr. G is going to roast you, high fire at seven hundred degrees, if you keep that mindset,” He says, dragging Henry back to the light peeking through the boarded-up slats. Kevin ignores him, shakes off some dirt, and kicks the brooms under the entrance again. Connor manages to squeeze both him and Henry through before Kevin can help, so he just exits normally. As they round the machines, Kevin sees Arnold is at the counter, chatting to another man, dark skinned with a neat beard and wearing a suit. And slippers. Kevin can sense Connor’s horror without even having to look at him. Arnold spots them and waves them over eagerly, the man also turning to look at them. Kevin belatedly thinks about how scraggly they look, before putting on his most winning Mormon smile.

“Hey buddy, this is Gotswana! He’s Naba’s uncle. And also the health and safety inspector.”

Dr. Gotswana (no last name given, Doctorate in – for some unfathomable reason – Anthology) is a formidable man despite being slightly shorter than Kevin.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, holding out his hand. Gotswana shakes it heartily, and Kevin can feel some of his bones disintegrate at the grip.

“Good to meet you too! Naba has told me things about you, and so has Prophet Cunningham here.” Kevin shoots Arnold a quizzical look, and the other man just shrugs in return, adjusting his vest.

“Uh. Good things I hope?” He says, smile slightly frozen. Gotswana lets out a loud, hysterical bark of laughter.

“Just things.” He replies, suddenly deadly serious. Kevin nods, unwilling to continue questioning. Gotswana’s attention turns to Connor sharply, and Connor gives him a strained attempt at an arrogant grin.

“Heeeyyy… Dr. G,” he says, and Gotswana grins back. It looks predatory.

“Ah, white boy. I’m surprised you are still here,” He says flippantly, and Connors grin grows even more strained.

“Well, what can you say? I’m a premium employee and Naba loves me.” Gotswana scoffs disbelievingly.

“You do nothing but laze about. At least now there’s this one here to pick up the slack,” Gotswana says, gesturing to Kevin. Kevin smiles, feeling proud of himself. Connor bristles a bit.

“He doesn’t do night-times. Have you ever heard someone say _‘sorry, I can’t help you close up because I have to go home and be asleep by eight’_? I can’t believe him.”

“Sleeping a healthy amount is vital to making your day smooth,” Kevin retorts in a huff. He is saved from Connor’s scathing reply by the appearance of Naba, who smiles at Gotswana sweetly.

“Ready to pass the inspection?” She says, and Gotswana grins back at her in an equally terrifying manner. They remind Kevin and Connor of two apex predators about to fight to the death.

“Always, Nabulungi."

 

* * *

 

Gotswana takes one look into the arena from the doorway.

“Failed.”

Naba groans.

“Are you kidding me? It looks so much better than the last time we called you in because this time we had Kevin cleaning it.”

“Cleaning it is one thing, Nabulungi. There are _holes_ in the floors. I can see the rats still moving. The glow paint is giving off a toxic smell. That ramp doesn’t even have a barrier on it,” Connor grumbles his assent. Gotswana continues.

“You have to remodel the arena before I can pass it, Nabulungi, you know that. Stop calling me in every three months to inspect a place that hasn’t been changed at all.” He finishes gently. Naba slumps. Even her space buns seem to droop a little.

“If you pass it, I can call benefits for renovation, which means Baba can pay a lot less, and _you_ know that.” She says, looking pleadingly at Gotswana. Kevin watches him waver a bit, before he sighs and looks away.

“I’m sorry, Nabulungi, but this is the law we live by,” he replies, ruffling her hair gently. She grumbles unintelligibly at him, “I’m already doing your visits for free.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then? Give it some time. You don’t need to keep trying to re-open the laser tag arena when you don't’ have the resources to, you know.”

Naba stays tight lipped, silent. Gotswana sighs. He takes out a legal pad from his suit pocket and scribbles down something, before giving it to Kevin.

“The report,” he says, smiling unsettlingly, before glancing at Naba one more time and then sauntering out. Kevin watches him go with a mix of awe and trepidation. They all stand there, frozen, until Arnold says;

“Well, that went w- ” He’s cut off as Naba turns around sharply and darts through the boards towards her office. They all hear the door slam shut. Arnold sighs.

“Aw, shucks.” He mumbles, before following her. Kevin makes to do the same, but Connor grabs his arm and jerks him back.

“What the heck, Connor?”

“Let them figure it out,” Connor replies, ignoring Kevin’s annoyance, “Arnold’s good at talking to people, and they’ve known each other a long time.”

Kevin stops struggling, turning back to the dark entrance. He feels… useless, just standing here, not being able to help someone who was, to him, a good friend and a good employer. He glances down at the crumpled report in his hand. Connor tugs his arm a little more insistently.

“Come on. We have a job to do. And by we, I mean you. I’m going to go eat.” Kevin rolls his eyes, unwittingly following the other man back to the front.

“It’s ten-thirty in the morning, Connor.”

“Any time is snack time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you're having a hard time imagining it, this is henry: https://goo.gl/Emx5MK
> 
> next chapter is more world building (sorry we gotta get some of that in) and also the appearance of the promised gnomes :)) thank you all for being so supportive!
> 
> \- hei (tvheit)


	5. Gnomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, gnomes. (NOT CLICKBAIT)

“Oh my god, Kevin, you manage to suck out the fun of everything by just _existing_ ,” Connor gripes as Kevin accidentally topples the card deck he’s building on the prize counter. The _'sorry'_ dies on Kevin’s lips. Connor is extra hungover and extra irritable today, so where his words were once just insulting, they are venomous. Kevin ignores him instead, annoyed, and goes back to counting out prize tickets from the small boy in front of him who is staring wide-eyed at the prizes displayed in the front cabinet and behind Kevin. When Connor realises Kevin isn’t answering, he stamps on Kevin’s toes. Hard.

“You can choose any prize with an orange sticker,” Kevin forces out a smile at the boy, tears threatening to sting his eyes. Connor lets out a small snicker, and Kevin sees red.

“I want this one!” The boy, oblivious to Kevin’s pain, points to a blue stuffed bear in the front cabinet. Kevin leans over to look at it.

“A moment please,” He says, strained smile still on his face as he leans down, grabs the cabinet key from its hook, unlocks the wooden door, and smashes it as hard as he can into Connor’s kneecaps. There’s an alarmed yelp from above him and a splintering sound in his hands, and Kevin can’t help the genuine smile that breaks out on his face. He takes the bear gently and stands up straight, smiling as sweetly as he can as he hands it over to the small child.

“Here you go! Have a nice day,” He chirps, grin bordering on deranged. He can feel Connor’s anger radiating off him. The boy takes the bear, eye darting warily between Connor and Kevin. Hugging the bear, he scuttles off to his mother, who is impatiently waiting at the door. Kevin and Connor both watch them leave, eerily still. The bell rings to signal the door closing, and –

“What the FUCK,” Connor all but screams, spinning around wildly to face Kevin before collapsing on the floor, holding his knee. His eyes are smarting with tears as well now, and Kevin would have felt sorry for him if it was anyone else. He looks down at the cabinet door, which now had a very visible dent, splinters sticking out. Luckily, it still locks, so Kevin counts that as a win. Connor is making a high-pitched noise, rocking back and forth. Kevin glances at him, pretending not to care.

“You deserved it,” Kevin says, shrugging.

“You’re a cunt,” Connor replies through gritted teeth, his knees red, some splinters visible and starting to swell, and Kevin really does feel a tiny bit bad at that point. “I can’t fucking believe you kneecapped me.”

“ _Kneecapped y –_ oh, please. You stomped on my toes because I was _ignoring_ you,” Kevin says defensively. Connor drags himself up with the help of the one stool they have behind the counter. He gingerly sits down, hissing in pain as he inspects his knees.

“This is literally physical assault,” He announces, still glaring at Kevin. Kevin glares back. Connor is turning him into an expert at staring competitions.

“Wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t being annoying.”

“You knocked over my card tower.”

“Why were you building one instead of helping that boy?”

“Does it matter? I don’t give a shit about him. That’s what you’re for. I’m here to look good and annoy you until you quit.”

“You’re here to do a _job_ , not sit there and act snippy when all I’m trying to do is survive!” Kevin yells, finally snapping. Connor just stares at him coolly, anger already ebbed away into pure loathing.

“But it’s just _so_ much fun to sit here and act snippy, especially when it’s towards some self-righteous asshole who mopes around all day feeling sorry for himself.”

 “That’s it, I actually quit. Screw you, Connor, I hope you _burn_ in hell.” He storms around the counter and into the staff room, grabbing his backpack and rushing out of the arcade before the rational part of his brain tells him to stop being an idiot. Kevin manages to get about halfway past the café two doors down before logic finally catches up with him and he screeches to a halt, face draining. He just said he quit the only job offer he got. Over an argument with his co-worker. He didn’t even resign properly, or at least clock out for a break, and Connor didn’t even stop him –

Kevin only realises he’s not breathing when Arnold comes running up and tackles him to the ground.

“Hey! Hey buddy, stay with me, okay?” Arnold says worriedly, sitting up and propping a choking Kevin against the wall. Kevin blinks, vision swimming a bit, and he opens his mouth to tell Arnold he’s _fine_ , but his throat refuses to open so all he does is cough pitifully. Arnold sits there, arm around him and patting his back while whispering soothingly at Kevin until his lungs start working again and Kevin gasps, gulping down fresh air.

“There we go,” Arnold grins, and Kevin gives him a grateful groan. He pats Kevin, and then sits down properly next to him, legs crossed and back straight. _Like my companion used to do in Uganda_ , Kevin realises with a jolt. He hadn’t really considered his mission in a long time. Arnold looks at him patiently. Kevin remembers suddenly what he just did, and drops his face into his hands with increased agitation.

“Oh gosh, Arnold, what have I done,” He half-sobs, half-whines, hopelessness coming over him. Arnold puts a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Kevin leans into the touch unconsciously. “I don’t have anything but that job, how am I supposed to make money, or pay rent, heck, and what will Naba _think_ –” Arnold shushes him as his voice starts to get hysterical.

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay,” Arnold says, same soothing voice like he’s talking to a wounded animal. Kevin feels a bit of his pride get hurt at this, but realistically he knows he looks downright stupid. “I’ll talk to Naba, and she’ll talk to Connor. Naba really likes you, she’s not gonna let you go that easily. You don’t really want to quit, do you?” He continues.

Kevin doesn’t reply. In reality, he’s wanted to quit ever since Sarah kicked him in the shins and go work somewhere else without preteens and irritating redheads. But, also in reality, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and Kevin is tired of running. Arnold seems to understand, and his hand grips Kevin’s shoulders.

“We’ll sort it out, buddy,” he says, before getting up. Kevin raises a tear-stained face to stare remorsefully at Arnold, who offers out a hand to help Kevin up. Kevin thinks back to meeting a certain man for the first time, between dumpsters, staring up in the same fashion. It’s too similar, too parallel to the point that Kevin wants to laugh despite the overwhelming black hole inside him.

This time though, he takes the hand.

 

* * *

 

“Wow,” Is the only thing Arnold says as he enters Kevin’s flat. Kevin closes the door behind them and kicks off his shoes, suddenly exhausted. He realises belatedly that he’s still wearing his work polo, but can’t bring himself to care enough about it to take it off. Arnold walks around slowly, circling the two milk crates slowly. He peers out the dusty window to look at the equally dusty outside, and then rounds the tiny space one more time, hand trailing on the one empty mantelpiece. Kevin goes into his bedroom, chucking his backpack onto the floor and removing his socks. Mafala Hatimbi’s shoes don’t quite fit him, so he has to wear a thick pair of socks in order to prevent twisting his ankle. Arnold continues his slow exploration of Kevin’s house, pausing at the weird plastic flamingo that is half cemented into his kitchen countertop.

“Did you do this?” His voice drifts into Kevin’s bedroom.

“No, some previous tenant did,” Kevin replies, throwing his socks into his slowly filling washing machine.

“How interesting,” Arnold says, sounding delighted. Kevin laughs a bit. He’s only known Arnold for a week at most, and already the other man had shown him more compassion than Connor has since, well, ever. He walks out to the main room again and stands beside Arnold, opening an overhead cabinet and taking out two mismatched cups.

“Do you want some water? Sorry, I don’t have anything else,” He asks, tone half-apologetic. Arnold nods gratefully, and Kevin pours him a glass. They both end up sitting in silence on Kevin’s milk crates, staring out the window. Kevin glances at Arnold, who is sitting stock still, cup hovering on his lips as if he’s forgotten it was there. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Finally, Arnold jolts back to life, causing Kevin to jump a little as well. He drains his cup with finality, and says, “Right. I’m bringing you to Target.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a massive standalone Target fifteen minutes from Kevin’s flat and he never even realised. He kills the engine on his sputtering minivan as Arnold unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out.

“Come on, buddy,” Arnold says, tugging at Kevin’s arm, shaking him from his awed reverie of the block. Kevin allows himself to get pulled into the cool interior, still wondering how he managed to completely miss the existence of this place. Soft music plays from ceiling speakers, and shoppers mill about in relative silence. While the arcade has an air-conditioner, there’s a certain preteen stench and constant, jarring noise so no one can blame Kevin when he falls in love, just a little bit, with the cleanliness of Target.

He doesn’t even notice they’ve been walking until Arnold narrowly stops him from body-slamming a shelf. Kevin snaps back to reality, turning look at the shorter man.

“Choose one,” Arnold says, gesturing in front of them to said shelf. Kevin turns his head forward to properly see what he’s talking about –

And comes face to face with a gnome.

“Guh.” He sputters, a bit startled. Arnold snickers, but unlike Connor, he doesn’t sound like he’s laughing at Kevin. Although he definitely is.

After stepping back a metre or so, Kevin realises that no, he’s not dreaming, and yes, there is an industrial shelf stacked with different types of nineteen-inch garden gnomes in front of him. It’s like the prize cabinet back in the arcade, but larger, oddly unnerving, and more disgruntled.

He looks at Arnold, uncomprehending. Arnold smiles back at him knowingly, but Kevin doesn’t know what there is to know.

“What?” He finally says, and Arnold slumps for a fraction of a second, before recovering and pointing enthusiastically at Kevin.

“You,” He emphasizes, then swinging his arm back to point to the gnomes, “pick one.”

“Arnold, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a best friend gift,” Arnold says.

“I don't have any friends,” Kevin says.

“You do now,” Arnold replies stubbornly, his voice leaving no room for argument. Kevin feels his cheeks go warm despite the chill of Target, and his chest constricts. He’s not going to cry in front of his new friend, even though he did exactly that two hours ago.

“That one, then,” He says shakily, pointing at the first gnome he sees. Arnold heaves it off the shelf with a beam. As they head towards the checkout, Kevin gets the chance to properly look at the garden ornament. It has a pointy red hat, a bright blue top, and a very grumpy face hidden behind a sloppily painted beard. Kevin decides that he will defend this gnome from harm or die trying.

Arnold finishes paying, and they head back to the van, where he insists on holding the gnome on his lap to minimise damage in the event of a crash. Kevin informs Arnold that the gnome would probably end up restricting him from getting the airbag, thus killing him. Arnold crinkles his nose as he laughs at that, crooked glasses slipping.

“I didn’t mean damage to me, silly. I meant the gnome.”

“Well, if it came down to saving you or a garden gnome," Kevin argues, mentally adding a clause for exception in his previous Oath of Gnome Protection, "I have known you for a substantially longer period of time.”

The drive back to Kevin’s house is easy. Arnold quizzes him about pop culture and makes exaggerated gasps of shock whenever Kevin says he hasn’t watched a movie. By the time they’re back at Kevin’s apartment complex, Arnold has made Kevin pinky swear to come over at least three times for different films, and at least once for the entire Star Wars franchise. They get out of the van and Arnold lugs the gnome up the two steps to the landing. Kevin stops walking, realising something.

“I don’t have a garden for the gnome,” He hears himself say. Arnold stops and turns to look back at him before shrugging.

“But you have a flamingo,” He replies casually, as if that statement didn’t bring up more questions than answers. Well, Kevin guesses, whatever Arnold means is going to be good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA sorry for the slight angst but thats the worst of it over though, and theres even a gnome (so it was only slightly clickbait but more will appear, dont worry)
> 
> we both are so so happy that ppl like to read this and are interested in what happens next :') also snove and i are both 83 yr old senior citizens so while we do want to reply to every comment sometimes we miss one or two and we're so sorry!! but we do appreciate every single one of u that read/kudos/comment <3
> 
> as always, we're @egg-o and @tvheit on tumblr!


	6. Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things settle down as much as is possible. Snacks are commandeered.

“I still have splinters in my knees,” is the first thing Connor says to him when he walks into work (late, as usual) the next day, passing where Kevin has been stationed behind the ticket counter for the last twenty minutes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Splinters. I still have them. In my knees. From yesterday.” Connor continues, bypassing Kevin, very obviously not looking at him, and raising his voice as he walks away into the break room.  
  
“So? Pull them out?” Kevin is not doing this right now. It’s too early.  
  
“I will. I wanted to wait until I saw you first. Just so I could let you know. And make you feel guilty.” comes Connor’s muffled voice, followed by the sound of him dumping his bag in one of the dilapidated lockers and rummaging around it for something.  
  
“Don’t get overwhelmed with surprise, but I don’t really care,” Kevin replies, and thinks he might have gotten the redhead off his back when the only answer he gets is a sigh. He realizes his mistake though, when he sees the look on Connor’s face when he re-emerges, like he’s about to murder the president and enjoy it immensely.

He sits himself down behind the counter next to Kevin, lifts his leg up at about a ninety-degree angle onto the counter, and proceeds to pluck the little splinters of wood out of his knees. This is pretty standard procedure for removing splinters, except Connor is a drama queen, so he does it by staring Kevin dead in the eyes and saying "Ow" in the most over the top, obviously fake pained way he can manage.  
  
“Did you sleep with splinters in your knees specifically so you could do this?” Kevin asks after thirty seconds of staring back, unable to resist because this is next level pettiness. Even for Connor.

“Yes. Are you really surprised?” The redhead replies, glare unwavering.

“I... surely you could - you know what? I’m kind of impressed.”

“You’re supposed to feel guilty and mildly annoyed. Ow.”

“Yes, but I don’t. I am, however, kind of in awe of how small-minded you are.”

“Fuck you. I’m in pain,” Connor replies, faking a wince as he pull out another splinter to emphasize his point.

“Oh no,” Kevin deadpans. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“I didn’t think you were comfortable enough in your sexuality for that.” Kevin wants to punch the smug smile off Connor’s face.

“Heck off,” Kevin says, proud of his use of strong langue until Connor starts sniggering. Kevin desperately tries to think of something he can say to make himself look both cool and put-together.

“Good morning boys!” Naba says, appearing from god knows where. Kevin silently thanks the god he currently doesn’t believe in for the interruption. “It’s good to see you here for the first half an hour of your shift for once, Connor.”

“Just for you, Nabs. Although Kevin is making me regret ever coming in. Again.” He shoots a dark look in his direction before turning back to his boss.

“You’ve been purposely antagonizing me ever since you got here. You’ve done nothing but try and rile me up.”  
  
“Oh stop it with the big words. You’ll have me swooning, sweetheart.” Connor says, lacing his words with as much sarcasm and venom as he can.  
  
“Connor, stop trying to make Kevin quit. He’s the only person around he who actually works.” Nabulungi interjects. Connor scowls and Kevin bristles with pride at being told he’s needed. He smiles smugly before he feels Connor’s leg that isn’t on the counter hit him in the shins.  
  
“Sorry, my bad,” Kevin says as he feigns overbalancing on his seat and landing his elbow into his coworker’s side.  
  
“Here, let me help you,” Connor grabs him by the shoulders and straightens him back into a sitting position, but not without digging his too-long nails into the skin of his arms. Kevin goes to clap the other boy on the shoulder as thanks, possibly with the intention of accidentally hitting him to hard, but Connor slaps his hand away before he gets the opportunity.  
  
“Hey! What was that for?” Kevin asks, cradling his hand against his chest. “Naba, he slapped me!”  
  
“Kevin, you’re twenty-one years old.”  
  
“Yeah Kevin, show some maturity.” Connor says, giving him a nice gentle shove.  
  
“You too, Connor. You left home at sixteen. If anyone should know how to act like an adult it’s you,” Naba looks somewhere between amused and incredibly pained, “Come on.”  
  
“I’m mature,” Kevin sulks petulantly, causing Connor to start laughing uncontrollably and eventually use him as support to stop himself from falling over as he gasps for air. Kevin really wanted to avoid this today.  
  
He pushes off the hand gripping onto his shoulder, causing the redhead to respond by slapping at the hand grabbing his own, leaving Kevin to defend his pride by slapping his hands in return. It continues to escalate in this fashion, with Connor occasionally yelling _fuck you, Jesus boy_ and with Naba’s amusement and worry growing exponentially.  
  
“OKAY BOYS. That’s enough. You’re both going into timeout. Connor, you sit over there and face the wall, Kevin you face that one,” She snaps, pointing to opposite sides of the arcade. “You’re going to think about your actions, and you can come back when you feel you’re ready to be civil. I’ll man the counter.”  
  
“What?” Kevin asks, unsure if she’s being serious, but also terrified of angering her any further.  
  
“You. Wall. Now.” She points to each of them, and then to their respective timeout spots, before pushing both of them off their chairs. Connor begins to walk over to his wall, grumbling unhappily under his breath, and Kevin figures if Naba has convinced Connor to do it, he should probably be convinced too. Before she starts breaking fingers. Or something.

 

* * *

  
  
“Ow.” Kevin hears faintly from the other end of the room. He’s been staring at the wall for ten minutes, wondering how long he’ll have to wait before Naba is approachable.  
  
“Ow.” Comes the voice again. Kevin pinches his arm to stop himself from doing something that’ll get him kept in timeout. He’s desperate for something to do that isn’t staring at the disgustingly grubby wall. Not desperate enough to engage with Connor, though.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
Okay maybe he’s lying to himself about not wanting to engage.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
He takes a breath and tries to focus on anything else.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Connor I know you already got all the splinters out. You can stop now.”  
  
“You don’t know me.”  
  
“Oh for crying out loud -“  
  
“BOYS!” Naba’s voice booms from the front on the room, scaring them both back into a mutually agreed silence.

 

* * *

 

Kevin never thought he would willingly end up cramped in a small enclosed space with Connor but, well, here he is. Somehow, squishing himself between a weird smelling mop bucket and Connor’s shins is a better alternative to being anywhere else in the arcade, because at least Naba can’t yell at them in here.  
  
Kevin is willing to admit that yes, maybe it was his (and Connor’s) fault for her bad mood. And yes, maybe they should have learned from their time out experience, and yes, maybe they shouldn’t have been ignoring needy children in favour of vehemently calling each other names, but Connor had asked him what sucking Thomas Monson’s dick was like with absolutely no provocation and Kevin had lost it.  
  
“I’m hungry,” Connor whines, and Kevin is willing to bet he’s perfectly fine, food wise, and just wants something to talk about.  
  
“You should have eaten breakfast,” Kevin wants to keep the conversation to a minimum, because it a lot easier to keep a truce with someone as infuriating as Connor with silence.  
  
“I did. I get hungry when I’m bored,” He explains, speaking like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
“So you’re not actually hungry, then.”  
  
“Yes I am. I’m hungry and bored. And I want you to go get me some food so I don’t have to start eating the mop,” Connor gestures towards where it’s sitting abandoned in the bucket next to Kevin, who leans over and gives it a whiff before grimacing.  
  
“If you ate that you’d die.”  
  
“Precisely. Get me a can of gummy worms. And a packet of those chips from South America if there’s any left.”  
  
“If you died, I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”  
  
“Well, you’ve got me there. And I’ll have some of those value pretzels.”  
  
“If Naba sees me taking food while she’s like this she’s gonna go all mob boss on me. She’ll probably chop off my fingers and feed them to her mafia friends.”  
  
“- But only the salted pretzels, not that flavorless shit that they market as health food.” Connor's stomach, as if on cue, grumbles loudly, and Kevin hauls himself up. He’s not willing to let their tentative ceasefire go over some pretzels. If this will stop them arguing for the rest of their shift, or at least until Connor gets hungry again, then Kevin is willing to face the wrath of Nabulungi. Possibly.  
  
“You owe me one.”  
  
“I don’t owe you anything, pretty boy.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin’s seen a total of two spy movies in his life: Spy Kids and Barbie: Spy Squad. He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to do, crawling along the ground to the food counter, but he’s pretty sure it’s what Carmen and Juni would be doing if they had to try and avoid the wrath of Nabulungi. He’s almost made it, and is reaching for a bag of chips when Arnold’s perky voice greets him.

“Hey, Kev, buddy! Whatcha up to?” Arnold beams down at him from the other side of the counter, holding several small gnomes, and Kevin quickly presses his body to the floor in fear that the greeting will alert Naba to his presence.

“ _Shhh,_ _Arnold!_ You’ll make Naba realize I’m here.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yeah she’s… scary today.”

“Oh, cool. Well, I’m gonna go find her. These are for you, by the way,” Arnold says, placing the brightly colored ceramic men on the counter and walking off. Kevin jolts as he realizes where he’s off to. The boy is wonderful, but he’s hard to deal with even on good days. He can’t imagine what Naba would do if he got under her skin now.

“Wait, no, you can’t -” he tries to warn his friend, but he’s not listening. Kevin watches with bated breath as he bounds over to where Naba is looking murderous and trying to retrieve a pinball that’s been crammed into the coin slot somehow. Kevin’s almost ready to blow his cover and run to Arnold’s side in some sort of heroic attempt to do something when he taps her on the shoulder. Well, there’s no hope left. Kevin watches with bated breath, expecting her to glare him away at best, or murder him and sell his organs on the black market at worst. But as soon as she lays eyes on the shorter boy, Naba’s expression softens and she throws her arms around his shoulders.

“Arnold, I’m so glad you’re here. Kevin and Connor are driving me up the fucking wall,” She says loudly, and Kevin isn’t sure whether she’s knows he’s there and is passive aggressively addressing him or not, so he pulls himself up slowly from the floor and tries to think of some sort of explanation to why he was on it in the first place.

Naba doesn’t notice though, or doesn’t care, because her attention doesn’t turn from Arnold. She places a gentle kiss on his forehead as he smiles up at her and Kevin is about to have an aneurysm when he hears a loud theatrical gasp from behind him.

“Wow. Real life straights. Can you believe it? I met a straight once. Annoying piece of shit. Blandest person I’ve ever met. Handsome though,” Connor says, shit eating grin plastered on his face and looking at Kevin with one eyebrow raised.

“What are you doing out here?” Kevin whispers angrily. Sort of whispers. More like quietly shouts. He never learned how to whisper.

“You never came back. I had to check you weren’t taken hostage by the power couple of the year.”

“You didn’t know Arnold was even here. Also, they’re together?”

“Of course Arnold is here. Naba was upset, he was bound to turn up sooner or later. He’s got a sixth sense for that kind of thing. Like, I’m pretty sure he can track her with his mind. Or maybe they just texted each other. And yes, they’re dating, how haven’t you noticed this?” Connor looks slightly amused and slightly exasperated, an expression that he’s been using more and more around Kevin lately.

“I just - they’ve never - how could…?” Kevin doesn’t know what he’s saying. He knows he can be kind of oblivious to other people’s lives, but he can’t stand the fact that Connor seems to know this too. “I’ve never seen them kiss?”

“Kissing isn’t the only thing in a relationship, lover boy. Haven’t you noticed the way Arnold can’t concentrate on anything else when she’s around? And anyway, kissing doesn’t necessarily mean people are in a relationship. If I was together with everyone I’d kissed, I’d be a Mormon again.”

“Hey, the church doesn’t support polygamy anymore. You know that.”

“Sorry I get confused with all the horrible stuff they do support. Have you ever seen inside a conversion camp, asshole?” Kevin wants to tell him off for his crude language, but he’s also suddenly hit with the image of pre-heathen Connor being scared and alone in one of those places and being taught to hate himself.

“Have you?”

Connor just shrugs in response, which would have been an obvious _yes and I don’t want to talk about it_ had it not been for the way his actions all seemed to be in jest, and the shit-eating grin still present, albeit frozen, on his face. Kevin had no idea what the heck _that_ was supposed to mean.

“I can’t believe I can’t even count on you to steal a pack of chips. Come on, let’s leave before Naba looks up from staring into Arnold’s eyes,” Connor says when Kevin doesn’t continue. The redhead bends down to gather entirely too much junk food into his arms before setting off back towards the storage room. “Coming?”

Kevin snaps out of his reverie, startled, and pours himself a slushie before following Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i can gush for ages about sissi's writing i love it so much??? this is probably my favourite chapter of it all god what a legend
> 
> thank you all for the kudos and really nice comments god they really make our day!!


	7. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More gnomes, rashes, and Poptarts.

Connor is already at work when Kevin turns up, surprisingly. He’s sitting on their communal, battered, weirdly stained couch as Kevin gets into his uniform.

“You’re on time today,” He tells him conversationally, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving it into one of the less broken lockers.

“Yeah, I had to avoid my landlord. He knows what time I start work, so I had to leave before he started waiting around my door to ask for the rent,” Connor replies.

“Have you ever paid it on time?”

“The first month I was here, yeah.”

“You’re going to get evicted.”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

“That’s not how-“

“That’s a nasty looking rash.” Connor points out before Kevin can correct him. Kevin cranes his neck to look at the inflamed patch of skin on his back that Connor’s pointing to.

“I was wondering why my back was so itchy.”

“How’d you get it?” He asks, tone laced with humour, but also tinged with what Kevin thinks might be actual concern. It’s strange.

He shrugs. Connor raises an eyebrow at him.

“You might have sensitive skin. What’s your shirt made from?”

“No idea. I just bought it.”

“Did you wash it before you put it on?”

“No, I bought it so I didn’t have to do my washing. I bought seven of them. My washing machine is really loud and right next to my bed.”

“Kevin, you can’t just- wait, your washing machine is in your bedroom?”

“Yeah? Where else is it supposed to go?”

“Literally anywhere else.”

“But then draining pipe wouldn’t be long enough to put through the window.” Kevin explains.

Connor, who is has been confused for a while now by how Kevin is still managing to live alone and somehow stay alive, lowers his head into his hands and takes a deep breath to calm himself before he does something like punch a certain idiot in the face, or find out where he lives and move his washing machine out of his bedroom.

“I have literally never met someone so dumb in my life. Who the fuck let you move out of your home? How are you legally an adult?”

“That seems unnecessarily rude,” Kevin says with a huff, knowing Connor’s right. He’ll never let him have the satisfaction of knowing he knows, though.

“Oh my fucking god, Kevin,” Connor, who is at this point sorely missing his job (the part of it where he lies down on the floor as far away from his coworker as possible, at least), so he stands up and exits the break room as quickly as he can.

 

* * *

 

“Kevin, there’s a package here for you,” Naba says as she walks in through the front door past where he’s waiting behind the ticket counter for customers. Connor disappeared to god knows where at the beginning of his shift and Kevin hasn’t seen him since. He looks up hopefully.

“Do you think it’s...“

“I think it might be,” She places the small orange envelope on the counter and they both look at it with anticipation, Kevin because he’s excited to no longer be called _TRAINEE_ and Naba because she won’t have to keep dealing with Kevin asking where his name badge is every two days. “Shall I let you do the honors?”

Kevin picks it up gingerly in his hands and turns it over. The address of the arcade is emblazoned across the front. He peels away the flap on the other side and pulls out the small, black piece of plastic from inside, leaving it face down in his palm.

“This is it,” He says, almost reverently, before finally turning the badge around to pin on himself. “Oh.”

“Oh. It’s...”

“Is that...?”

“Yeah I think it is.”

“But-" Kevin hasn’t taken his eyes off the white letters printed innocently on a plastic badge with _Hello, my name is LEVIN_ written across it.

“I have a sharpie,” Naba says before Kevin starts crying. It doesn’t help.

 

* * *

 

Connor takes one look at Kevin’s badge and bursts into hysterics. Kevin glares morosely as he collapses on the floor, rolling around in peals of laughter.

“That -” Connor hiccups, “ - is the funniest thing I have seen all week.” Kevin ignores him and goes back to organising the weird stuffed toys in the display cabinet. Seriously, where the heck did Naba get half these things? Connor practically prances over and grabs Kevin’s badge, still attached to his shirt. Kevin lets out a “Hey!” in protest as his shirt is yanked around as Connor peers at it.

“Hello, my name is Levin,” He recites with evident glee. Kevin slaps his hand away angrily.

“The sharpie kept rubbing off.” Connor’s cheshire cat grin gets even wider.

“Yeah, I bet it did,” He says sunnily. There is nothing Connor McKinley enjoys more than witnessing Kevin Price’s misfortune.

“Can you go away and stop making fun of this stupid thing?” Kevin grumbles at the redhead, who smiles sweetly.

“I would _never_ make fun of the badge, honey. The only thing I’m interested in making fun of is _you._ ”

Kevin groans and lets his head hit the countertop as Connor skips away merrily to get changed. He can already sense an insufferable case of Connor Exposure coming on.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome to FunZone, ma’am, I’m Connor and this is my co-worker Levin -”

“Sorry, ignore him, I’m _Kevin._ ”

“ - and we’re _so_ delighted you chose FunZone for your little child’s activities today! Don’t hesitate to give _Levin_ or I a call if anything arises!”

Kevin grits his teeth as the woman gives them both a long, uncertain stare, before she gets tugged away by a small boy insistent on getting some weird minion plushie from the crane machines. Connor keeps smiling, and Kevin feels the urge to punch the smile right off his face. He squashes the desire by digging his blunt nails into his palm.

“Can you stop doing that?” He hisses, side-eyeing the cheerful redhead. Connor never, ever greets the customers. However, today he seems determined to make as many people as possible call Kevin “Levin”, and as a result of that is overenthusiastically talking to every single person who comes through the door.

“Doing what?” Connor replies innocently.

“The… name thing. Can you stop it? It’s not as if they can’t read.”

“I’m just making sure. We have important dangerous jobs, Levin. They need to know our names in case we die in the line of duty.”

“The most danger we’ve ever been in on the job is when Naba caught you stealing four hot dogs. And it’s _Kevin_ , you idiot.”

Connor shrugs, ignoring his correction. “See, dangerous.”

Kevin sighs, and resumes staring at the countertop.

A few minutes later, Arnold bounces in, smiling broadly. Despite Kevin’s despair, a part of him lights up upon seeing his best friend.

“Hello, Arn.”

“Hey Kev! Hey Con,” Arnold replies, his eyes suddenly widening as he spots Kevin’s new nametag.

“Oh, you finally got it!” He cheers, and Kevin feels his forming smile disappear. He sighs, looking down at it as Connor sniggers quietly next to him.

“Yeah, but they made a mistake,” He says, voice bordering on a whine, and Arnold frowns, peering over to take a better look.

“That’s not your name?” He asks, puzzled. Kevin shakes his head.

“That says ‘Levin’. My name’s ‘Kevin’, Arn.”

“Oh,” Arnold suddenly goes quiet. Then-

“So Kev, you know how we just became best friends and all-”

“Arnold, what did you do.”

“-and as best friends we have to forgive and forget, right-”

“Arnold.”

“-so we’re not gonna let one little thing come between us-”

“ _Arnold._ ”

“-I wastheonewhoorderedyourbadge,” Arnold finishes quickly, looking at Kevin worriedly. Kevin feels his mind go blank.  
“You what?”

“I, uh, did your badge for you. Naba needed it ASAP so she asked me to get it done since I know printers and shit. And I may or may not be the tiniest bit dyslexic, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re still best friends, right?” Kevin, personally, thinks it matters a whole lot. But Arnold looks so worried that his anger deflates like a reluctant balloon and he sighs.

“No, it’s fine.” He mutters, and smiles quietly as relief floods Arnold’s face.

“Oh thank god, I was scared for a moment there,” he says, easygoing smile suddenly back. “Well, I’m gonna go start training now.”

Kevin watches Arnold skip towards the back of the arcade blankly. Connor laughs at him.

“You’re such a pushover.”

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Connor’s phone rings with a delicate text chime one evening when they’re cleaning up the arcade after a rather impressive birthday party for a child named Michael that began with a pinata and ended with two broken table legs and a very aggressive hole in the plaster wall. Kevin clicks his tongue at him, turning off Henry so he doesn’t have to yell over the din the vacuum makes.

“No phones allowed on during the day.”

“Kevin, we work in FunZone. A phone ringing is nothing compared to the noise pollution this place gives off on a hourly basis.” Kevin shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter, you’re on the clock now. It’s just polite.”

“I’m not interested in being heterosexual or polite.”

“Is that a reference I don’t get?” Kevin says, rolling his eyes. Connor lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“You poor, uncultured human,” He says, pulling out his smartphone from his bleached white shorts, and squinting at it delicately. Kevin is suddenly aware of his distinct lack of a phone, smart or otherwise. Connor raises an eyebrow at the glowing screen, before looking back up at Kevin.

“It’s Naba.” He says. Kevin tries and fails to look unconcerned.  
“Is everything alright?” Connor shrugs, expression unreadable.

“She wants you in the office now. Urgent.” Kevin feels the blood drain from his face. Connor smirks slightly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but Kevin is too preoccupied with astral-projecting himself back in time to work through every possible interaction he has ever had with Naba that could have led to him being called into her office. _Urgently_. After a minute or two of staring at Kevin standing stock-still, Connor evidently grows bored of doing so and snaps his fingers two inches from Kevin’s face, snapping him out of his panic.

“She says now, dreamboat. Go.” Connor makes a shooing motion with his hands. Kevin drops Henry’s nozzle uncaringly (Connor does a heavily fake affronted gasp at that) and heads quickly for Naba’s office, hands suddenly clammy.

“Naba, whatever I did, I promise I’ll fix-” Kevin blurts as soon as he steps into her office and makes eye contact with her, but Naba cuts him off with a sharp hand motion. Kevin’s mouth clamps shut out of habit, and he stand there, feeling a bit like a chicken on the chopping block. Naba reaches under her desk, and Kevin is about eighty percent certain she’s going to pull out a gun and order him to kill someone, or maybe just shoot him right then and there. Connor would be glad, he’s always wanted Kevin gone anyway, and now Naba’s lifting something and Kevin feels his hands brace into fists (What is it with FunZone staff constantly triggering a fight or flight response?) as she places on her desk a gnome.

Kevin blinks.

He’s no stranger to gnomes at this point in his life; every other day Arnold comes into the Arcade with a garden gnome that looks the same as every other garden gnome Kevin already has, but upon returning home Kevin sees that it’s a wearing a different coloured shirt, or it’s a different size, or something. At this point, Kevin’s started arranging them artistically around his flat’s dingy living area. Everyday he changes up the arrangement a bit for some variety. It makes up for the depressing lack of furniture.

Naba clears her throat, and Kevin can tell she’s attempting to keep a straight face. He relaxes slightly, because unless Naba had some weird, gnome-affiliated firing ritual, he’s in the clear.

“Kevin, Arnold told me all about your lovely flat.” Kevin can’t help the derisive snort he lets out. Naba nearly smiles. “And I thought it would be nice to give you a housewarming present.”

Kevin stares at the gnome. It’s wearing a weirdly green santa outfit.

“Thanks, Naba, but I think I’m gonna end up with more gnomes than floor space at this rate.” He says, feeling as if he would be betraying Arnold by accepting a gnome from another person. He makes to leave, but Naba pushes the gnome further across the table, and Kevin stays rooted to the spot by an unknown force of nature.

“It’s a housewarming present,” She repeats.

“Actually, I’m moving out,” Kevin lies badly. Naba scoffs.

“Kevin, I don’t pay you enough to survive. You’re not moving out.”

Kevin sweats. “Then I want a pay rise.”

“Watch yourself, white boy,” Naba says, and then, “Take the fucking gnome.”

And well, who is Kevin to reject such a kind offer.

 

* * *

 

Five hours after Connor McKinley laughs at Kevin awkwardly carrying a gnome out of the arcade to his car, locks up the place, catches the late bus home to his small but tasteful second story flat, and watches about two hours worth of bad rom-coms while chugging a bottle of white wine until he falls asleep, there’s a sharp rapping at the window next to his couch.

Connor jolts awake, light sleeper that he is. The rapping continues, sharp and urgent. He hesitates, before slowly getting up and padding over to the window. On the way, his right hand closes around the softball bat he has next to his door in case of intruders like his landlord, and after a silent, still beat he raises his arm in defense and yanks open the heavy curtain. And stares, raised arm frozen in threat.

A young man around his age is clinging desperately to the side of the building, duffel bag slung over his shoulders. He seems to have scaled the short distance to Connor’s window by climbing on top of the air conditioner units. His hair is brown, long and unruly, and his eyes are a weirdly mesmerizing teal. The other man stops his knocking in alarm and looks up at Connor, before his face breaks into a relieved smile.

“Connor! Oh thank fuck, I was so worried you would have moved, and that I’d have to use the last of my chloroform to silence the new tenant.” Comes the muffled voice, full of youth and words lilting. Connor blinks, uncomprehending for a second, before gasping in sudden recognition.

“Chris? What the fuck?”

Half a minute later, Thomas “Just call me Chris. That’s my middle name. My parents hated me a lot.” Thomas is sitting cross-legged on Connor’s fake animal skin carpet and panting slightly, duffel bag abandoned by the window. Connor’s in the kitchen, brewing a cup of coffee.

“What brings you back to Florida?” He asks, turning back to the other man, who sighs tiredly at him.

“I’m on the run again,” Chris moans, staring at Connor with puppy eyes. A woman on the TV screen wails passionately at a letter. Connor makes a sympathetic noise as Chris finds the remote and turns the volume down.

“What is it this time?”

“Some guy and I started a fortune-telling scam and followed this weird spiritual camp that a ton of middle-class, young white people were doing as like a side business. They went all over for a few months, which was cool, we just did standard shit like tell their fortunes while they were high in exchange for their bank details, and give out a potion or two, which were basically marijuana cocktails, now that I think of it, so the usual kind of scams. We were making bank, too,” Chris sighs and gratefully cradles the coffee (no milk, no sugar, Chris is a demon) Connor puts down in front of him. Connor sits down on the floor too, leaning against the couch, and waits patiently for his childhood friend to finish.

“Anyway,” Chris says, after an appreciative sip of exceedingly bitter coffee, “We stop in Pennsylvania, right? As traveling weed camps do. And just so happens some parent of some minor that ran away to join her older girlfriend on this hippie camp threw a fit and called the cops, which of course, sends everyone in an absolute frenzy, and then the whole thing goes tits up.” Connor raises an eyebrow, and Chris gives him a tired, don’t ask look.

“So it’s fine, we just have like fifty fucking pounds of cannabis in our trunk, no biggie, so my partner chucks it out and we gun it out of the camp. But our trucks got this like, weird spiritual, probably racist fortune telling ad on the sides and - oh, you’re gonna laugh so hard at this - we get stopped by cops. Which is fine, we’ve literally just handed over all our stock so we’re totally clean, but turns out fucking fortune telling is illegal. Like, third-degree misdemeanor. So we do what we do best; hold a Mexican standoff over four cops, win, and run as far away as possible. We split at the border, he went west, I went south, and now I’m here.”

Connor lets out a slow whistle. “Sounds wild.” Chris laughs, and reaches over to his duffel bag to rummage around in it a bit.

“You bet your ass. We got a decent profit though, so I decided to cover my tracks, lay low for a while,” Chris says gleefully, and Connor catches a glimpse of stacks of cash sitting in the duffel bag, “No one would expect me back in a state where I’m still wanted, anyway.” Connor smiles and waits, and then laughs at the sudden morose realisation that comes over Chris when the penny drops.

“Fuck. I’m still wanted.”

“I still think it’s funnier that you’re wanted for dodging parking fines, not stealing an elephant.”

“I’m probably wanted for that too,” Chris says glumly. “What is it with me and bullshit laws?” Connor places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“Tomorrow I can get you a haircut, and you can get yourself a new cover story. Stick with Chris, Thanks to your parents they’ve got you listed as Thomas. I’ll call up Naba and tell her you’re back for a while. She’s forgiven you for ruining the air hockey machine. You can take the couch.” Chris smiles, his boyish face travel-worn and tired.

“Thanks, Con. It’s really nice to know that the arcade’s still here and you’re still working there. Makes it seem like nothing’s changed.” He mumbles, already half asleep. Connor pulls him up onto the couch gently. Stops. Thinks briefly about a handsome, idiotic face. Shrugs the thought away, unaware of a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“There’s just a few differences,” He replies softly, but Chris doesn’t hear him, already snoring away. Connor turns off the still murmuring TV and goes to his own room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Thank u to everyone who’s reading this and leaving comments and kudos it’s so nice to know people actually like this. Hope ur enjoying it and uhhhhhhh do ur laundry kids
> 
> Also formatting is a bitch and I’m dumb as shit so please tell me if something looks weird/there aren’t breaks between paragraphs in places :):)
> 
> -snove (Sissi)


	8. Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse burglaries happen to all of us sometime in our life. Also, Kevin meets Chris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start takes place right after the narrative swaps to Connor and Chris in the previous chapter, and continues on at the same time. we are terrible at writing linear narratives.

Kevin, for the life of him, can’t figure out how the couch ended up in his flat. Nor how all his gnomes ended up sitting on it in what looks like an impromptu tea-party. But mostly, his confusion stemmed from the question _where the heck did this couch come from?_  
  
His first thought is to panic, and he almost drops the gnome Naba had forcefully gifted him. Someone’s been in his flat. Someone’s been in his flat without him knowing, and that’s exactly what a burglar does, right? Before they burgle things? Kevin’s never been burgled.  
  
The second coherent thought he manages to have is that whoever burgled him would have been severely disappointed at the number of things worth stealing in here. Everything has a resale value of about zero dollars, or is bolted down to the surface it rests on because his landlord trusts Kevin as much as he would trust a burglar.  
  
Only then, after a moment of panicking in his doorway and worrying about the state of his flat, does he remember the cause for all this.  
  
There’s a couch. In his living room. There’s an ugly floral patterned couch that’s somewhere between pink and vomit-green sitting in the middle of his flat, covered in gnomes. And his milk crates labeled TABLE and CHAIR in permanent marker are nowhere to be seen.  
  
His panic resurfaces when he realizes they’ve been taken. A thing that usually happens during a burglary. This time, he does drop the gnome (gently), and runs into his bedroom, bathroom and then back into the main room, quickly checking that none of his other belongings are missing. It doesn’t take very long, considering his lack of items that aren’t utterly essential (apart from the gnomes, which are arguably essential). Kevin really needs to get more than one fork. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, the problem is the apparent anti-burglar that has ravaged his home.  
  
Once he’s sure nothing’s out of place in the rest of his flat, he goes over to inspect the couch. Despite the fact that it looks like it’s straight out of a retirement village, it seems like a solid upgrade in furniture. And the gnomes seem to be enjoying it.

The gnomes?

_Arnold._

Kevin guesses he should have seen it coming. It's not like his life isn’t pitiful enough, and Arnold has been nothing but generous since they met. It’s like the questionably colored couch was written into his equally questionable destiny. Kevin decides he loves it, and picks up his phone so he can make sure Arnold knows how grateful he is.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?” Arnold picks up after three rings.

“Hey. You… the thing. There’s a – wait. How did you…? No, that’s not important. Couch?” Kevin asks, because he’s anything but eloquent.

“Oh you got a couch?” Arnold asks, and Kevin can almost hear him smirking. “Congratulations!”

“No, but… it’s…”

“I’m proud of you buddy. See you tomorrow.” The phone crackles in Kevin’s ear as the other man hangs up. He’s somehow even more confused than before. 

 

* * *

 

Kevin walks through the glass doors of the arcade, still thinking about his new couch of dubious origins when he comes face to face with an average man with an average face and average height. In fact, the only non-average part of him is the FunZone polo he’s wearing.

 “Oh! Hey there,” says the average man, putting down a slightly open box of bouncy balls.

 “Connor? What the heck happened to you?” says Kevin.

“What’re you talking about? Nothing’s happened to me,” says Connor, emerging from the breakroom and giving Kevin one of his usual bemused looks. Kevin, already having had to deal with a new gnome and a new couch in the past 24 hours, isn’t sure if he can deal with a new co-worker on top of that.

His eyes flicker between Connor and the average man a few times just to confirm that Connor is not actually playing an oddly specific prank on him. Average Man is also looking at him bemusedly, but he holds none of the condescension Connor does in his gaze. Kevin keeps staring at him.

“Uh, Connor? He’s starting to creep me out,” Chris says after a few long uncomfortable seconds of Kevin staring straight into his soul. He glances over helplessly to the redhead, who rolls his eyes.

“Give him a few seconds, he’ll come around.”

“If I stand here any longer I’m afraid his stare might start burning a hole in my torso.”

Connor lets out another bark of laughter, but graciously puts his hands onto Kevin’s shoulder’s and steers him into the direction of the terrible plastic tables they have set up for birthdays. Kevin allows himself to be pushed blankly. Chris lets out a sigh of relief and goes to pull out a chair, and they both manage to all but drop Kevin onto it. From the other side of the table, they watch Kevin stare into nothing.

“Is this normal?” Chris asks after a while. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Connor sighs, sounding exasperated, “He just astral projects sometimes, and I’m never sure if he’s being possessed, disassociating, or visiting the creator of the universe and having afternoon tea.”

“It’s seven a.m., Con. You can’t have afternoon tea in the morning.”

 “ _That’s_ the part you took away from that?”

 Kevin yelps, and they both snap their heads back in his general direction.

 “Guh. Sorry,” Kevin says, startled by their sudden, piercing attention.

“No worries!” Average Man says cheerily, “I’m Chris, by the way. Let’s get you a slushie.”

 Several minutes later, Kevin is holding a slushie made out of every flavour. Somewhere else, a vaguely familiar little girl starts screaming about justice and unfairness to her mother for some reason. Kevin eyes the slushie suspiciously, a dull phantom pain flooding his shins.

“We’re not supposed to eat the arcade food on or off the clock,” he says, unsure. Chris looks at Connor, who gives him a little ‘I told you so’ shrug. Chris sighs inaudibly, before giving a tired, but genuine smile to Kevin

“Well, you haven’t clocked in yet, so you’re a customer. And being a really nice, uh –”

“– slushie machine operator,” Connor interjects helpfully. Chris nods solemnly.

“Slushie machine operator – thanks, Con – I’m paying for your drink and introducing myself. Enjoy!”

“Just go with it,” Connor says when Kevin gapes at him.

 

* * *

 

Chris, twenty-three years old, blonde with an undercut, childhood friend of Connor McKinley, with a cheery/somewhat unsettling disposition is the new employee at FunZone Arcade ~~and Laser Tag~~. He knows Naba, presumably having worked there before, has friendly chats with Gotswana after he fails them again, and on top of it all, he actually does his job. When another kid had spilt soda onto the race car seats and Chris just cleaned it himself instead of waving Kevin over and exercising ‘Premium Employee Benefits’, Kevin could have kissed him. In a straight way.

Apart from being one of the most average people Kevin has ever seen (and he grew up in Salt Lake City, Mormon capital of the world), Chris is actually quite nice. He helps Kevin constantly and makes idle small talk that doesn’t derail into throwing barbed insults. Even the children seem more bearable with Chris around. Kevin isn’t too sure how he feels about all of this. 

“Pay attention to me,” Connor whines to Chris four days later, rudely interrupting a riveting discussion on the health properties of eating just kale for eternity.

“Connor, you’re supposed to be over there, manning the counter.” Chris points to the other side of the arcade. Connor does a particularly impressive pout.

“But now I’m here, manning the –” his eyes dart around quickly before landing on something “–  Angry Birds game.”

“We have an Angry Birds game?” Kevin asks at the same time Chris says, “That’s not something that’s in your job description.”

Connor lets out a long groan that verges on a whine. Kevin feels a headache coming on. A bored Connor plus being ignored does not equal a good end result for Kevin, ever. Chris however, having had to deal with several of these bored Connor episodes for most of his life, doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Kevin and I are trying to fix the race car coin slot, Con. Someone’s tried to be a smartass and shoved a fake coin in. Go and man the counter before the two children standing there start a mutiny and Naba sells us all to Russia.” 

Connor stalks back over to the front of the arcade sullenly, and Chris smiles exasperatedly at his slouched back.

“He’s stayed the same all these years,” Chris says, smiling at Kevin. He does a lot of smiling. Chris would have made a good Mormon. 

“You mean he’s always been kind of a lazy jerk?” Kevin asks, half rolling his eyes. Chris shrugs.

“He was sort of different when we were younger. Nicer. But things happened, and now he’s insufferable,” Chris murmurs, so soft Kevin barely catches it.

“He’s not all bad, though,” Kevin finds himself saying, which is weird because Connor is, in fact, all bad and no good, “Well, maybe I’m lying a bit.”

Chris laughs, eyes bright.

“Oh, Connors definitely a right prick. If I hadn’t known him since birth, I wouldn’t have given half the things he’s done a second chance. He’s got a heart where it counts, though, and he’s one of the most loyal people I have ever met. Not all bad at all.” 

Kevin nods, only because he has nothing else to say.

Several minutes later, Chris dislodges the coin (intentional) and the whole front panel of the machine (unintentional).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so something important.
> 
> Our school has blocked AO3, which means its quite inconvenient for snove or i to post chapters as they come up. as well as that, we both have school work that needs to be completed constantly (final yr of high school lmao) which means that while we desperately want to write chapters, we can't upload as frequently or as much as we would want to, which is why this chapter is so short, and it sucks for everyone. so sorry abt this ;;
> 
> We have definitely planned out quite a bit of this though; like its our baby and we're not giving it up for the world so yeah just bear with us thank u all so much for your understanding :')


	9. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helpfulness isn't a sin (?)

 

Kevin is not in any way used to people like Chris or Arnold, despite one being a perfectly nice, if average guy and the other being his, well, best friend. After Uganda, the niceness kind of puts him a bit on edge, no matter the intent. To compensate for his discomfort and to help soothe the panicky part of him that feels inadequate whenever either of them do something nice for him, Kevin starts to become very attentive and eager to help them, specifically Arnold, out in any way possible. This, of course, never works out quite the way he wants it to.

“I’m going to help Chris out in the storeroom,” Kevin says during a particularly slow day, because it drives him crazy not being able to be useful.

“Mmprgh,” Connor says in return, face still smushed into the counter, because it drives him crazy having to put effort into anything.

Chris, slightly dusty but still cheery, kindly tells Kevin that he has everything under control once, twice, and then manhandles him to the door in lieu of a third repetition, telling him to mop the arcade if he’s so free. Kevin spends three minutes getting the mop before he realizes that the arcade is actually carpeted, but by this time Chris has locked the storeroom door. He then spends the next two hours of his shift trying to figure out what he's doing wrong in between ringing up tokens until the bell rings and Arnold bounces in. Kevin perks up immediately.

"Hey Kev, I've run out," Arnold says cheerily. Connor peels his face from the counter with a grunt.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he announces, and then very obviously heads out the back door to start his lunch break an hour early. Kevin attempts to slip several stacks of tokens into the pile Arnold had already paid for. Arnold notices immediately.

“Kev, for the billionth time, I don’t need free tokens,” He says patiently, pushing the neat stacks back towards Kevin. Kevin stubbornly pushes them forward again.

“You got me a couch,” Kevin says, and Arnold rolls his eyes gently.

“I didn’t get you a couch, you got reverse-burgled and the said burglars were kind enough to leave you one in exchange for your milk cartons.”

“And I’m sure the milk cartons that have suddenly appeared as pseudo-chairs in Naba’s office has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Of course.”

 Kevin purses his lips. There’s the beginnings of a line starting behind Arnold, and the family of four does not look too happy with the hold up. He sighs and Arnold beams at him, pushes the stacked tokens back one more time before quickly darting off.

“This isn’t over!” Kevin all but yells after him. Arnold laughs.

At his lunch break, Kevin goes to find Arnold, a stolen wiener from the hot dog rotator in hand. Vaguely, he realizes that he’s never really bothered to find out why Arnold keeps coming back to the arcade, because they don’t really speak when Kevin’s on the clock. In fact, their conversations so far have been limited to calming Kevin down and giving him gnomes. Kevin knows that Arnold’s game has something to do with music, and it is something he can spend hours doing. Other than that, he has no clue what the other man could be doing in the back of the arcade for hours at a time.

As he rounds the hockey table and RPG machines, he sees Arnold, winter vest shrugged off, drinking water while sitting on the edge of some weird game machine he’s never bothered to learn about. Kevin approaches him, taking a small bite of his hot dog.

“Hey, buddy!” Arnold says when he spots Kevin, a large infectious smile breaking out on his face. Kevin mirrors it unconsciously.

“Hey Arn. Mind if I eat here?” Kevin says, and Arnold shakes his head vigorously.

“Nah, not at all! Come sit with me.” He pats the little bit of edge next to him. Kevin slots himself in as best he can; there’s some sort of handlebar protruding from the floor that makes the space a little difficult to sit in. They sit in silence for a while, Arnold intently typing out a text message, and Kevin taking the tiniest bites of his wiener.

 “Thank you for being my friend,” Kevin finally blurts, seemingly unable to keep his mouth shut, a habit he never really managed to shake, even throughout Uganda. Arnold stops typing and lets out a sigh, He looks at Kevin, eyebrows furrowed.

 “Kev, buddy, you don’t have to thank me. I _want_ to be your best friend,” Arnold says, as earnestly as is possible, and Kevin feels his heart and cheeks warm. He doesn’t know what he’d ever do without Arnold now. Arnold makes it all better by being such a confident, warm, and loyal person through all of Kevin’s bitter and dramatic times.

 “I don’t know what I can do to repay you –” Kevin starts, but Arnold cuts him off loudly.

“I don't want you to repay me, Kev! We’re buddies now, you know? You being here and talking is good enough,” He says, looking sad, and if there’s one thing Kevin hates more than his own life, it’s seeing a sad Arnold. But he still can’t let go of his fear, his desperation to be even half the person to Arnold that Arnold is to him, and so Kevin presses on.

“Arn, I _have_ to. You bought me a _couch_.”

“If I did buy you a couch – which I obviously did not, how would I even get a set of your keys to place it in your apartment – it would be because I wanted to, Kev, and not something I’d except repayment for. You can repay me be being my friend. That’s all I ever wanna ask of you.” 

“But – Arn, you don’t understand.”

 Arnold looks at him as if he’s understanding that he’s fighting a losing battle instead.

“Fine,” he says, suddenly serious, and Kevin chokes on a piece of hot dog. “Let’s make a bet.”

“What bet?” Kevin coughs.

“If you beat me at DDR, I’ll let you keep doing things you seriously don’t have to do because I love you regardless. If you don’t, you can’t continue this. Deal?”

Kevin stares at the machine dubiously. It looks very complicated.

“What’s DDR?”

“Dance Dance Revolution. It’s a dancing game; you step on the arrows as they come up on screen,” Arnold explains. It’s not exactly a game Kevin would have expected him to be playing. In fact, it’s the exact opposite of any game Kevin would have thought about if someone asked him what Arnold was doing at the back of the arcade almost every day. Kevin tries his best to be a good person and not judge, but Arnold is undeniably fat and unfit, two things you wouldn’t expect from someone who spends his time playing an arcade game that seems to involve quick skill. From this bad assumption, Kevin draws the equally bad assumption that DDR would not be that hard.

 “Deal,” His ego says, and shakes Arnold’s hand.

* * *

 

Twelve minutes later, Kevin is pretty sure his lungs are about to burst out of his throat and that he’s broken his ankles. Arnold takes a sip of water, looking as if he’d just done a light jog instead.

“Heck,” Kevin gasps. Arnold silently offers him the bottle. Kevin grabs it and takes a long, large swig. It feels like heaven.

“How are you so good?” He finally manages to say, looking up at Arnold in a mixture of disbelief and awe. In hindsight, accepting a challenge to a game on a machine he’s never even looked at against Arnold, someone who comes to the arcade everyday just to play on said machine, was incredibly stupid. Kevin briefly wonders if he’s starting to prematurely go senile. Arnold does one of his small, noncommittal shrugs, looking a bit embarrassed. 

“Mom and Dad were really busy, I guess. I wandered into an arcade once when I was twelve because they forgot to pick me up from school; they had this game,” He says, looking at the machine almost wistfully, “It didn’t really take much to get me hooked. Playing DDR was kind of like getting another family, in a way. I made friends at the arcade, started taking the bus home. My parents didn’t really care; as long as I didn’t bother them they were happy to keep paying for the tokens.”

“Oh,” Kevin says, because his parents have never forgotten him or his siblings anywhere. He can imagine a small Arnold wandering around, alone, already knowing that his parents weren’t going to come. His chest restricts. “I’m sorry?”

Arnold laughs and the corner of his eyes crinkle. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I… don’t know.” Sorry that your parents did that. Sorry that you had to replace them with a machine. Sorry that I’m not a great friend. “Sorry.”

“Kev, buddy, it’s not your fault. Just– I do things like give you couches because I can and because I want to, but also because you’re my friend, you know? And you don’t have to go out of your way to do anything in return.” Arnold sighs, running a hand absently through his hair and tugging on it. 

“I _knew_ you gave me that couch,” Kevin half hisses.

“What couch?” Arnold replies. Kevin feels the edges of a smile tug on the corner of his lips.

“You’re a terrible liar, Arn.”

“Says you.”

“Sorry that I’m Mormon.”

“I thought you said you weren’t that Mormon.”

“I’m kind of half-half right now. Sorry.”

“Stop doing that,” says Arnold, “Stop saying sorry.”

“Sorry,” Kevin says automatically. Arnold groans.

“If you say sorry one more time I will pour this bottle on your head.”

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Kevin says, horrified because his hair is the one part of him that is always perfect, and it takes a lot of effort. Arnold is full-on grinning now, and moves as if to start upending the water. Kevin jolts away in a very manly fashion.

“Arnold, I swear to G-” He doesn’t get to finish before Arnold leaps for him and Kevin is forced to yelp and half-hop out of his best friend’s grip. Thirty seconds later, they’re running around the arcade shrieking like children while Connor, back from goodness-knows-where, laughs at them both and films the whole thing.

When they’re later both sitting in Naba’s office, dripping slightly and trying to look sheepish, Kevin has more or less forgotten why he had been sorry. When he glances at Arnold, who gives him a grin so infectious he can’t help but grin back as Naba chastises them without any true malice in her voice, he decides that if Arnold didn’t think it mattered, then it really didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God we are so sorry for how late this chapter was; both of us just got bogged down with school work! we are definitely still continuing this so thank you for sticking with us even with the erratic updates!!


	10. Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naba sends The Boys on a nice field trip to everyone's favourite chain store.

Naba calls them both into her office one afternoon. It's about 90 degrees, the arcade air conditioner is broken (someone managed to shoot an air hockey puck into the vent, Kevin can't even begin to fathom how they did it) and the only vaguely cool room is Naba's office, so both Connor and Kevin scramble out of the ticket and prize counter as soon as they get her text, making a beeline through the still unopened laser tag rink to the cool haven of the office. Naba's office is small but neat, the only oddity being the milk crates that served as substitute chairs. Kevin thinks back fleetingly to a time before Arnold aggressively giving him furniture of dubious origin, a time where he used to sit on those very milk crates and have a breakdown over whatever soggy spaghetti he was eating straight out of a can that night.

"Take a seat, boys," Naba says brightly, swiveling around on a very squeaky chair. Kevin sits down on a milk crate hesitantly. Connor looks down at his, which has 'TABLE' written in block letters in black permanent marker on it. He raises his eyebrows at Kevin slightly. Kevin refuses to acknowledge him.

"Well," Naba begins once Connor had gingerly lowered himself onto the crate, "I have good news!"

"You're firing us," Kevin sighs with relief. Connor nods next to him happily. Naba shakes her head.

"You know I can't afford to do that," she grins, and they both slump down again. Connor mumbles something like 'then what's the point', and Kevin feels inclined to agree with him. Naba leans forward on her table and steeples her fingers together.

"There's two birthday parties being held this afternoon, and I found out ten minutes ago that the order for the supplies didn't go through. So, this is it boys! You're heading to Target," she reclines in her squeaky chair, obviously pleased with her decision. Kevin doesn't know what sort of face he's making, but Connor is fixing Naba with a sort of disbelieving stare and Kevin thinks he might look similar.

"I'm sorry Naba, I thought you said you had good news," Connor finally says, a strained smile plastered on, "What part of 'doing extra work' sounds like good news to you?"

Naba blinks in surprise, eyes wide and innocent. She doesn't fool either of them in the slightest.

"But I thought you both would love the chance to get away from the arcade! I already typed up your shopping list," she exclaims, pulling out a sheet of paper from her beloved typewriter, and Kevin can feel a headache begin. He slumps even more forward until his face is half squashed into Naba's mahogany veneered table. Connor shifts with a sigh on the milk crate.

"Yeah, I suppose. But Naba, it's like ninety-five degrees, the asphalt is melting, we don’t have a car, Target is at least two miles away, and Mr. Vogue Model over here is wearing crocs," he gestures to Kevin, who tries to defend himself but ends up mumbling 'mmmgfrh' into the table. "With all due respect, Boss, we're already on the brink of death inside. The outside might just drop-kick us into the afterlife, and then who will refill the slushie machine?" Connor finishes, levelling his gaze.

Naba locks eyes with him. There's a short, semi-dramatic stare down, and then she says, "You can take the company van, then. Also, Target has a working air conditioner."

Well. That changes things, Kevin thinks, pushing himself upright. Connor smiles sweetly as Naba hands him a battered set of keys and the shopping list.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Nabs," he sing-songs and Kevin grins as well. Naba fixes them both with an exasperated expression as they get up to leave.

"Yes, alright. Don't run over anyone important," She calls after their retreating backs.

"We can't make promises," Connor yells back. Kevin stumbles out of the boarded-up entrance to the laser tag rink after him. There’s a girl wandering around near the crane games with her mother tapping away on her phone next to her, and Arnold on the Dance Dance machine as usual. Connor looks back at Kevin and says, "Get him a shirt."

Kevin stares at him blankly.

"A shirt," he repeats, and Connor groans.

"A company shirt, you idiot. Chris isn't here, who's going to watch the store when we're both gone?"

"I don't know. We're only going for two hours max and if someone manages to burn the place down then we never have to come back," Kevin says, his voice raising to defend himself. Connor raises his eyebrow and Kevin feels like punching him in the face.

"If someone other than me is the one to set this place on fire, honey, I'll be having a word with them," Connor replies with a sickly-sweet voice as he turns on his heel towards the door, "Now get him a damn shirt."

Kevin stands there stewing in anger for a moment, glaring daggers into the back of Connor's dumb fluffy hair before turning and _definitely not_ stomping towards the staff room. Inside, there's a broken locker full of lost property from at least ten years back that Naba dumps there after staff leave. Kevin rummages through the paraphernalia and manages to pick out a forgotten shirt that somehow seems both bigger and older than him. It doesn't smell too bad, and Kevin knows Arnold isn't too fussed about clothing either, so he decides it will do. He scrunches it into a crumpled ball and walks out of the staff room towards Arnold.

Arnold is in the middle of a very intense song on Dance Dance, but he spots Kevin out of the corner of his eye and a large grin spreads onto his face.

"Hey buddy!" He yells over the cacophony of music, feet moving lightning fast, "What's up?"

Kevin smiles, warmth gathering in his chest. Arnold is the best thing that his life has right now, and his constant sunny brashness, while sometimes too much, manages to make Kevin feel better most of the time.

"I'll wait for you to finish the song," He starts, but by the time he says that Arnold is already hopping off the machine to talk to him properly. He's panting a bit and has to lean on the rail in order to stand up, but he still looks at Kevin with a smile on his face and confidence in his eyes. Kevin finds himself preening a little bit.

"Connor and I have to go out to buy party supplies from Target, do you mind running the store for a while? We'll be back within an hour or so," Kevin asks, holding out the shirt. Arnold glances down at the offered ball of cloth and back and Kevin in surprise.

"You're putting me in charge?" He says slowly, and Kevin nods. Arnold's grin returns at full force and he envelops Kevin into a bear hug.

"This is why you're my best friend!" His exclamation is slightly muffled by Kevin's shirt and chest, and Kevin can't help but smile softly. Arnold releases him and takes the shirt, pulling it on with obvious glee. It's way too big even for him, but Arnold doesn't seem to care. _Thank God_ , Kevin thinks.

"Okay, now I'll just get you a trainee ba-" A very loud _BLAAARRPP_ sounds from outside. A small girl holding a slushie drops it in shock, and starts bawling. Through the tinted glass doors, Kevin can see the van, the FunZone logo peeling off the sides, and Connor leaning out of the driver's window with an annoyed expression on his face. He gestures wildly towards the arcade, and then puts his hand threateningly near the horn again. Kevin glares back although he knows that Connor can't actually see him.

"You know what, Arnold? Just - just take my badge, here, Naba's in her office - well, you would know that already but just go to her if anything goes wrong-" another loud _BLAAARRPP_ resonates through the arcade. The little girl starts screaming and now her mother is there, looking around angrily for a staff member. Kevin hastily takes off his badge and clips it haphazardly to Arnold, before running towards the door.

"Hey-" The flustered mother starts, but Kevin darts by her.

"Sorry, I'm on my break!" He yells, body slamming the arcade doors open. The doors swing closed behind him. The mother blinks and turns toward Arnold instead, who is awkwardly standing about ten feet away. The little girl is screaming now, and her mother looks livid. Arnold shuffles forward quietly.

"So... How can I help?" He offers. Never too late to fix a situation, he guesses.

"What sort of staffing is this?" The mother admonishes, jaw clenching. Arnold can see the hatred in her eyes. He wonders vaguely if it’s too late to start drafting a will.

"I'm sorry ma'am!" He replies brightly instead, choosing to ignore the obvious anger in her voice, "Uh, do you want to take your child to the bathroom or - or outside maybe? She's kind of disturbing the other customer…s," Arnold neglects to mention that he is the only other customer. The mother stares at him with disbelief.

"My child is in _tears_ -" she glances quickly at Arnold's crooked name tag, " _Levin_ , and one of your colleagues just brushed me off to go on break!"

"Oh- oh no, that says 'Kevin', it was a misspelling -" Arnold replies, looking down and pointing to his name tag, "- And that," he points to the door, where a van used to be, "- was Kevin. I'm Arnold - nice to meet you by the way - here's a coupon I just found in my pocket that gives you a free ice-cream with your next purchase at any In-n-Out-" He pushes the lady and her sniffling kid towards the door and they go with surprisingly little resistance "- and here's the door! Have a good day, come back when she's not crying so hard!" He deposits them onto the street and closes the door, flipping the sign to read CLOSED.

Some situations just take too much energy to fix properly, he thinks idly, before heading back towards the Dance Dance Revolution machine.

* * *

Target is, Kevin decides, too big for anyone wishing to babysit Connor McKinley. From the moment they step into the blessed cool artificial air, Connor all but vanishes while Kevin is left standing helplessly in the entrance with a crumpled shopping list in hand. An employee whose smile doesn’t reach her eyes hands him a red basket as muted generic pop songs play from the speakers in the ceiling. He takes it warily.

After a few minutes of wandering down aisles occasionally whisper-yelling Connor’s name, Kevin finally locates him in amongst racks of cheap clothing. Connor’s got about four shirts draped over his right arm, and is browsing intently through a rack of shirts.

“Connor,” Kevin hisses quietly. There seems to be an unspoken rule about the amount of noise you’re allowed to make in a Target. Connor pauses long enough for Kevin to know that he’s heard him, but continues on as if he hadn’t. Kevin feels the beginnings of a frown start on his face.

“What are you doing?” He hisses again, “Naba asked us to buy paper plates and party hats, not discount clothing.”

In lieu of a response, Connor thrusts some fabric into his face. Kevin sputters and does an odd juggle with the hanger before he can hold it far enough from his eyes to see. It’s a white button-down shirt with some sort of tiny polka-dot pattern. Upon closer inspection, the odd black dots on it are actually stylized Mickey Mouse heads.

“Does that look like your size?” Connor asks. Kevin turns the shirt around. It looks smart, way too smart for Kevin’s normal price range. The shoulders match up to his though, and Kevin notes with some surprise that the size is one up from what he had worn during Uganda. Connor watches him with a complicated expression.

“Try it on,” he orders, snapping Kevin out of his reverie. Kevin stares at him, the shirt, and then back to him. Connor lets out a groan and shoves Kevin into the direction of the fitting rooms.

“Connor, we’re supposed to be buying party supplies –” Kevin starts, digging his heels into the ground, but then Connor’s hand in between his shoulder blades disappears and he stumbles at the sudden lack of force. The redhead reappears moments later with a pair of dark jeans. Kevin stares at them.

“They’re ten dollars,” Connor says.

“No wonder they have holes in them,” Kevin replies. Connor forces the jeans into Kevin’s grip.

“It’s _fashion_ , idiot. People pay for the holes to be there.”

“ _I’m_ the idiot? When there are people willingly paying for ripped clothing?”

“You willingly paid for rubber, hole-filled shoes.”

“I don’t understand what you have against _crocs!_ ”

“Keep walking and shut your mouth before I get the urge to set them and you on fire.”

After being shoved into a tiny fitting room and pulling the shirt over his head, Kevin begrudgingly acknowledges how much nicer it feels compared to the scratchy FunZone polo. It fits him well, even shows off a bit of the new muscle he’s gained from hauling boxes and machines around the arcade. Kevin gazes into the fingerprint-smudged mirror and runs a hand through his hair to fluff it up again. With a bolt of surprise, he realizes that he looks, well, good. Kevin’s always known that he’s easy on the eyes, which ended up being both a blessing (adoration from almost everyone) and a curse (a hugely inflated ego). However, the past few months of non-stop minimum wage work, terrible dollar store clothing, and dismal standards of living had left no room for Kevin to truly look at himself past the hurried hair styling he does every morning.

After Uganda, Kevin couldn’t eat a full meal without feeling sick. Half his clothes were slightly too loose, and even his missionary uniform (tailored specifically for him) was feeling a bit baggy. Now though, he’s gained back some of the lost weight (possibly due to his dubious meals) and gotten even more defined muscle from all the boxes he lifts to put into or take out of the storeroom. Huh. Kevin glances down at his baggy orange shorts, which were actually two-dollar swim trunks that he found in a bargain bin that got a little singed from an attempted Connor ambush. He looks into the mirror over at the jeans hanging innocently on the door behind him.

Five minutes later, he slams opens the door, jeans half-on around his thighs. Luckily, the only person who looks up is Connor, who pauses in his browsing of a rack of graphic tees to rake his eyes slowly over Kevin’s half undressed form and then very pointedly raise an eyebrow.

“These are way too tight,” Kevin says pathetically. If Connor’s eyebrow could go any higher, it would disappear into his hair.

“They’re slim-cut,” he replies, walking over to Kevin with exaggerated annoyance.

“Bullshit they’re slim-cut,” Kevin says, and then clasps a hand over his mouth immediately. Connor stops, mouth parting in surprise.

“Holy shit.”

“Just help me get them off.” Connor, the jerk, doesn’t move. A slow grin breaks out on his dumb face.

“You swore.”

“No I didn’t.” Kevin can feel his face burning, and it’s surprisingly not caused by his state of undress.

“You _did._ ” Connor sounds positively gleeful. Kevin wonders if it’s too late to change his identity and flee to another country. Russia was sounding especially nice.

“Shut up,” he says and Connor must have moved, because he’s suddenly grasping at the top of the jeans and pulling them up instead of down. Kevin yelps. His knees are suddenly very cold compared to the rest of his lower body, which is suddenly feeling very compressed.

“Connor I asked you to help me get them off not on what the h–” Kevin doesn't get to finish whisper-yelling before Connor backs him into the fitting room making shushing noises. A slight scuffle ensues, which involves Kevin hissing in discomfort and Connor stubbornly trying to make him fit into jeans that are at least two sizes too small.

An audible ripping sound makes them both freeze mid-wrestle. Kevin covers his face.

“I told you they were too small,” He says, voice muffled.

“Huh,” Connor says from where he was trying to do up the fly.

Jeans sufficiently dumped in a messy pile of discarded clothing to get rid of the evidence, Kevin finally manages to talk Connor into actually doing the task they came here for. Connor complains spectacularly when Kevin makes him put back the phallic-shaped candles, and his voice reaches almost unacceptable levels (for the library-silence of Target) when Kevin refuses to buy confetti patterned paper plates.

“Those are _boring_.”

“They’re the cheapest!”

“We’re hosting _birthdays_ , Scrooge McDuck, not funerals.”

“I don’t know what kind of funerals you’ve been to, but I’ve never been to one that involved paper plates at _all_.”

They spend the next half hour traipsing around the party aisle of Target, sniping at each other and occasionally stopping to giggle at some weird party costume. Connor slips a pair of comically large heart-shaped sunglasses into the basket. Kevin pretends not to notice.

He doesn’t notice that he’s still holding the Mickey Mouse shirt until the cashier rings it up either, and by that time it’s too late. Connor meets his eyes and gives him a knowing smirk. Kevin shrugs at him in a what-can-you-do motion and hands over the cash Naba gave them to the cashier.

“It suits you,” Connor says later, seven minutes of radio silence into the drive back. He looks proud of himself underneath the gigantic monstrosity that is his new sunglasses. Kevin nods, looking at the bag between his feet that now houses his newest item of clothing.

“Thanks for picking it out,” He says, then, “How did you know I liked Mickey Mouse?”

Connor turns to give him a withering look and his party glasses slip dangerously off his face, which alarms Kevin enough to reach out and force them back onto his face and his eyes back onto the road.

“Guy from Utah gets disowned and decides to come straight to Orlando, Florida? Minus Disneyworld, there’s nothing else in this state but heatstroke and crocodiles. I pegged you for the kind of guy who likes cheesy cartoon shit, what with your whole holier-than-thou attitude,” he says, eyes focused on the road. Kevin is vaguely impressed until he adds, “Also, you told me your sob story a few months ago. Jesus, do you have dementia or something?” Kevin weighs his options, waits patiently for a few seconds, and then says loudly, “Shut the fuck up and drive, McKinley.”

The painful jerk against his seatbelt that happens when Connor hits the brakes in shock is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so finally we get to post this! this was the first thing i ever wrote for this au tbh and im so glad it didn't need too much rewriting to fit in with the direction we've been going haha
> 
> on a semi-related note, target has become really gentrified which is sad but for the sake of our poor minimum wage workers we're gonna pretend that in suburbian florida it's still a viable option for decent cheap items 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for all your support! it really warms both our hearts to see how much people like this au, and we're on tumblr @tvheit and @egg-o for any questions you want to ask us!


	11. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They speak about feelings plus the change that comes with them, and Chris gets Kevin a present.

Kevin walks out of Naba's office a few days later to where Connor is lying on the floor, face up, Angry Birds at his head, Henry at his feet. The cheery, insanity-inducing background music of several different games combined with it being 9 pm on a Thursday is making Kevin lose his grip on reality a bit, and he thinks Connor feels the same way. Arnold has suddenly appeared, and is currently doing a routine on the DDR machine so quickly that Kevin can’t actually see the arrows flying by on the screen.

“I couldn’t be bothered getting up to stop him from coming in,” Connor calls from the floor, vacant stare fixed on the pipes running along the ceiling. Arnold yells something that sounds like _sorry, I’m dyslexic!_ over some upbeat, Japanese, techno remix.

"Naba wants me to tell you that she's installed CCTV to keep an eye on us while we're working," Kevin says, stopping right next to Connor's splayed left arm. Connor shifts his blank stare from the ceiling towards Kevin slowly. 

"And her point is?" He drawls, fixing Kevin with an unimpressed stare. Kevin blinks back at him.

"I don't actually know, she was lying," he replies with a shrug, "Probably to see if you'd stop going to sleep on her carpet."

"The Vogons could be coming to demolish Earth right now and they wouldn't be able to make me move an inch," Connor says flatly, sarcastic as ever. Kevin rolls his eyes and folds himself into a cross-legged position next to Connor.

"Besides," He continues, and Kevin turns to look at him, “I thought Mormons didn't lie. You -” he gestures vaguely to Kevin’s torso, “- just did."

Kevin blinks, and shifts his gaze to the floor. Normally, he'd feel the need to defend himself from Connor poking holes into his already decaying religious practices, but for some reason or another, the prickly, defensive feeling he gets in his throat whenever Connor so much as blinks at him isn't there. 

"I'm not even that much of a Mormon anymore," He replies instead. He's been saying that a lot recently. Connor lifts his head slightly to squint at Kevin.

"A sort-of Mormon?" He asks, hair flopping into his eye. It's getting too long, and Connor hasn't bothered to cut it. Kevin represses the weirdly random urge to brush the dumb fringe out of his face. 

"Yeah, I guess. Sort-of Mormon would describe it," He says quietly. Ever since the day he pulled up to his flat for the first time, Kevin's life in Orlando had been nothing short of disastrous. There was a cold, sickening feeling that had taken root at the bottom of his stomach after his first day on the job and it drained him. He spent some days feeling like he could be the true Mormon he used to be two years ago again, and some days realizing that the universe wouldn't ever work the way he had wanted it to. Heck, the first day at this job, he spent half his lunch break crying in between two dumpsters. Kevin's been living paycheck to paycheck for so long now that he honestly doesn't remember how to have fun like a normal person anymore. _I was always supposed to be good at being a Mormon_ , he thinks, the sick feeling churning in his stomach, _but how am I supposed to do that when I’m even good at being a person anymore?_ Kevin feels his vision blur a little, and he turns away to blink quickly. He’s not going to cry in front of Connor.

Said Connor was propped onto his elbows by the time Kevin turns back to look at him. He’s focused on Kevin now, bright blue eyes piercing Kevin’s soul itself, and Kevin thinks he might be sick.

“You want to talk about it?” Connor finally asks, and he’s being cautious, Kevin realizes, which is something Connor has never been in the few months Kevin has known him. He takes a slow, deep breath.

“It’s just been tough since my mission,” He mutters, half-hoping that Connor won’t hear him. Connor lets out an understanding hum, and Kevin continues, slightly louder, “I was so good up until my mission itself, you know? I was a role model in school, at home, even at the MTC. And all I wanted was to come here, to Orlando, for what was going to be the two most incredible years of my life! And then I went to Uganda, and – well, you know the rest,” He can’t help the slight whine that makes its way into his voice, and he hopes Connor won’t latch on to it. To his relief, Connor doesn’t. Instead, he nods in agreement, hair flopping into his eyes again.

“I don’t get you, but I get you,” Connor says. Kevin doesn’t have time to be confused because Connor then pulls him down on the floor next to him, and Kevin hits his head on the side of the stupid Angry Birds arcade game, _hard_. He yelps and rolls onto his side in pain. Connor pushes himself up quickly.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” He swears, but Kevin is too focused on the weirdly swaying carpet to realize. For a second, he feels like he’s blacked out, but he comes to quickly enough, rocking back and forth in the fetal position, cradling his head pathetically next to Henry. Connor is in front of him now, glancing worriedly down at him. _This_ , Kevin thinks in a daze, _may be the first time Connor’s shown anything other than sarcasm and contempt to me._

“You alright?” Connor, now fuzzy, asks. Kevin manages to nod slightly, head still swimming and vision distorted. He attempts to sit up, but blood and pain rushes to his head and suddenly the floor smushed against his cheek is a lot more appealing. Connor helps him by hooking his arms under Kevin’s armpits and hauling him into a somewhat upright position. Kevin mumbles out a thank you, but it doesn’t even sound remotely coherent. He blinks, throbbing subsiding, as Connor props him up against that damned Angry Birds Arcade Adventure machine, sighing.

“Jeez, who knew you were made out of porcelain,” he grumbles, and although the traditional Connor smirk is tugging at the corner of his lips, there’s no malice in his voice. Kevin grunts, annoyed. He’s not weak, physically. In fact, he _knows_ he can beat Connor in any test of strength. Connor is a twig and weighs about 30 pounds soaking wet. Connor doesn’t clean behind the machines because he can’t push them. Connor once picked up a box of mineral water, pulled a muscle in his arm, and then proceeded to wax lyrical about the pain on the carpet in a very dramatic fashion until Naba threw him in the back of the van and drove him to the hospital. Kevin wants to tell him all of that, but Connors giving him that piercing look again and the comeback falters in his throat. They stare at each other for a while. Kevin feels like he’s locked into another place with that gaze, a world where the shrill arcade music is muted and the space contorts and constricts, patterned carpet sucking up the machines and the noise and the hot dog warmer until nothing exists but Connor and his impossibly blue eyes.

Suddenly, Connor blinks and everything returns.

Kevin looks away reflexively, coughing out an awkward laugh. When he looks back, Connor is smiling a bit sheepishly. He pokes Kevin’s arm lazily, and Kevin whines at it. Connor barks out a laugh, finally doing something Kevin is familiar with. 

“Well, shift’s over,” He says, pushing himself off the floor with the help of Henry’s nose. Kevin watches as he stretches slowly, like a cat, illuminated by the neon of the machines. He feels his throat close up again. Connor glances at him mid-stretch, before sighing exasperatedly and offering a hand to Kevin. Kevin stares at the appendage in front of him in surprise. Connor raises an eyebrow.

“Well? Do you need help or not, sweetie?” Connor asks, making as if to pull his hand away.

“Shut up,” Kevin says, and grabs it. He pulls himself up in a swift motion which makes Connor stumble a little and curse under his breath. Kevin feels his mouth curl into a smirk. Call him a bad person, but it’s still fun to see Connor in misfortune. Connor glares at him, but he’s not tensed like usual and it’s not mean-spirited in the least. Kevin laughs at him, and Connor’s own feature relax into a grin as well. 

“Good talk,” Connor finally says, clapping Kevin on the shoulder. His hand lingers for a moment, and then it’s gone and Connor is turning to the store room, dragging Henry with him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, hotshot.” 

A beat later, and then, “Thanks,” Kevin says, momentarily forgetting how to speak. Connor doesn’t look back, but lifts his free hand in a lazy wave. He disappears into the storeroom, and Kevin is left to the soft neon glow and shrill, cheery music, feeling alright for the first time in a very, very long while.

 

* * *

 

“Happy Birthday!” Chris says cheerily when Kevin walks into work the next morning, thrusting a lumpy, newspaper-wrapped thing into his face.

“It’s not my birthday?” Kevin says uncertainly. It comes out like a question. Christ shrugs, still holding out the package.

“Well, it was a one in three hundred and sixty-five chance,” he says, looking at Kevin expectantly. Kevin takes the package hesitantly. 

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome!” Chris chirps, all but skipping away. Kevin stands in confusion until Connor walks by and ‘accidentally’ whacks him in the shins.

One argument-filled (not really, anymore, for some reason they keep annoying each other for the sake of nostalgia rather than actual hatred) shift later, Kevin sits on the dilapidated couch turning over the oddly-shaped present as Connor and Chris get changed and banter over tap-dancing.

“Can I open this now?” He asks suddenly, and both of them turn to look at him.

“Yeah, course!” Chris says, tugging his t-shirt down. He comes over to sit next to Kevin, vibrating with excitement as if it was he who received the present. Connor follows suit, straightening out his own shirt. Kevin eyes it with apprehension. He has no idea what it is, why Chris would give it to him, or how he got it. He’s overheard them talking about Chris evading the law. He’s not _that_ stupid.

With a little nervousness, Kevin starts peeling off the tape delicately. Connor groans.

“Just rip it, for God’s sake,” he snipes dramatically, and Kevin, just to be a dick, peels even slower.

“What is it?” He asks, getting the first layer off and moving on to the next, “Is it something I’m going to regret seeing?”

“You’ll see,” Chris says in a way that instills both fear and curiosity in Kevin. He keeps unwrapping.

After what seems like fifty layers of newspaper, Kevin catches a glimpse of gold. Finally, he manages to discard the last scraps to see, in all its glory, a golden Moroni statue.

A golden one, eerily similar to the one on the mantelpiece back in his childhood home.

“Chris,” Kevin says slowly, dread pooling in his stomach, “Did you burgle my parent’s house?”

“No,” Chris replies sunnily, “I just thought I’d jump on the gnome bandwagon and get you one, and it definitely did not involve me doxing your family and taking a little interstate drive! Happy Not-Birthday!”

Kevin stares at him. Connor trembles with laughter beside him.

“Chris! You can’t go around stealing like this – did you just call the angel Moroni a _gnome?”_  

Connor loses it as Kevin stares disbelievingly at the blonde man. Chris smiles back at him innocently.

“It was a fun experience, don’t worry! They won’t miss it much, I’m sure. Oh, and I got you some other things as well if you want them, the entire experience only took about three days anyway.”

“Chris, it takes 34 hours to drive to Utah.”

“I had a wide range of data coverage and Spotify Premium.”

“Just accept it, holy shit,” Connor says, wiping tears away from his eyes, “Angel Moron would fit right in with your gnome collection.”

“I know you know what his name is, Connor,” Kevin growls, “You were a Mormon. And Chris, I appreciate this a lot but also… _Why?”_

“I know what I fucking said,” Connor shoots back as Chris shrugs again and said, “Just because I could.”

Kevin runs his Moroni-less hand through his hair hurriedly. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should! What the heck is gonna happen when my parents find out?”

“Nothing,” Chris says assuredly, “You’re here, in Florida, and you’ve been at work for the past few days so you have an alibi, so just keep it in your apartment as a little fuck-you to them for throwing you away!”

Well, when Chris puts it that way.

Kevin looks down at the statue with mixed feelings. It’s familiar, heavy and precious, and Kevin is hit with the memory of going to school in the mornings, passing the statue as he runs out the door with his brother to the bus stop, kissing his mother goodbye on the way. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Chris hugs him.

“Hey – Kev, Kevin, buddy, it’s okay,” Chris whispers as Kevin heaves, shaking uncontrollably, “It’s alright, we’re here for you now, you know that, right? Arnold’s here, Naba’s here, I’m here, and Connor too – at any time you need us, anywhere.”

Kevin sobs, overcome with longing for his past family and love for his present one. “I don’t deserve any of you.”

“Shut the hell up,” Connor suddenly says, “Just – shut up, Kevin. You don’t get to decide what you deserve now, because we’ve already done it for you. None of us are perfect and you’re included in that mix. I might not have liked you, because let's be real, you were really shitty. But you've grown on me, unfortunately, and now I'm begrudgingly accepting that I may actually consider you a -" He shudders theatrically, "- friend. We’ve all licked our wounds, accepted that it takes time to do so, and formed our own cohesive support system. And lucky you, you get a free lifetime membership into the Shithole Arcade Family – memberships cannot be transferred, cancelled, or resold, so strap in motherfucker, and let us love you.”

Kevin does an ugly snot-filled snort despite his messy state. “Do I get a member card?”

“Honey, you get a whole damn welcome package including but not limited to: free slushies, unlimited snack breaks, slightly sweaty polos, limi and as much love and friendship as you can possibly handle without getting smothered. Your member card is your name tag, we're running on a budget here." 

“Naba might not agree to some of that,” Chris adds, “But Connor’s correct. We can make you a new member hat if you want, though.”

Kevin laughs wetly, taking the tissue Chris offers him and blowing his nose. He wipes his puffy eyes and turns the statue over and over in his hands before looking up at both Chris and Connor. In the musty storeroom, Kevin merges his past and his present into a reflection of himself, the person who loses everything against his will and the person who gains back his life in the most unexpected way.

“You know what,” Kevin finds himself saying, “I think we should go and get dinner. All of us. Together.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Chris all but squeals, “I’ll go tell Naba and Arnold, meet you out front in ten?”  
  
Kevin nods and Chris exits, humming, leaving Connor and him in silence.

“We’ve had a few company meals,” Connor finally says, not quite looking at Kevin, “But not with you yet. You always turned down Naba’s invites. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Kevin looks at the statue again, and then up at Connor. For a brief, startling moment, he feels as if Connor _becomes_ Moroni, sees him and the statue as one, perfect representation of what Kevin cherishes and questions and loves (what he _loves?_ That’s new). He shrugs, finally getting off the couch and dusting off his new shirt, placing Moroni in his bag gently. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “Just because.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: both snove and i are continuing this story. yes, we aren't into tbom as much as we used to be, but we won't be abandoning this. it just so happens that it may take a long time because ao3 is still blocked when we are in school and we have a lot to do with both our own studies (plus im currently doing a big bang for another fandom alongside this) but we do love this monster that we've created and all that it stands for (crazy, inexplicable family) and ill be damned if it isnt seen through to the end
> 
> second: this fic is actually wrapping up soon - in the tags we kind of warned that its slow but then exponentially accelerates and we're almost reaching that part. feelings are always dumb things and its especially fun when its the boys having to experience them. im thinking to finish the main storyline under 30k, and we have an epilogue planned too that leads into our third point -
> 
> third: for both the sake of finishing this to satisfy ourselves and whoever may still be reading 3 months after the last update lmao we've cut some interactions and characters that would take too long to write, but maybe one day ill info dump about what could have been if we both didnt get lazy. the epilogue is mainly just a bit of an open-ended 'where do they go from here' exploration in the same style.
> 
> fourth: thank you to everyone who had read, commented, left kudos, etc. snove and i are always overwhelmed by the support and love and while it seems a bit awkward to reply to comments 3 months later just know we've read each and every one and are glad that this fandom continues to grow and support each other!


	12. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're back, with two (2) brand new characters and one (1) brand new realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD SORRY FOR THE HIATUS
> 
> okay so snove and i are officially done with high school!!!! yay!!! which means we can start getting to the parts of this fic that have a little less humour and a little more drama and plot, which sucks but well its honestly easier to write than humour lmao
> 
> but yeah, we're back baby if anyone is still reading tbom fic haha

It’s dusk when they finally finish locking up the arcade, and Kevin takes a moment to look up at the sky, streaked with purple and blue against the warmth of the setting sun. Naba, Chris, and Connor chatter to each other as they walk across the parking lot of the dusty, beige block where their little entertainment complex is located. Arnold taps his arm gently, smiles at him, and guides him to follow them.

“I’m so happy you’re finally joining us, bud! Like, I never want to pressure you into anything so I didn’t push it, but we really miss you at these company gatherings, you know? I mean, not that I’m part of the company - I’m more of like a follower. I follow the company. You get me?” Arnold blabbers as they reach Naba’s sedan which, while tasteful, looks like it could fit three and a half people on a good day. Kevin nods, not quite understanding a word Arnold had just said.

“Naba, I don’t think we’re going to fit,” Chris pipes up conversationally, voicing Kevin’s thoughts, and Naba pauses from where she’s getting into the driver’s seat. 

“What?” She says, and then, “Oh. Yes. Hmm.”

Connor looks pointedly at Kevin, “Look what you’ve done. You’ve thrown our usual scheme of saving money on gas out by at least six feet.” Kevin glares at him.

“I can just not go,” he starts to huff, but is immediately stopped by Arnold. 

“Shhhushhush,” Arnold says, managing to accidentally stick his fingers into Kevin’s mouth while trying to zip his lips, “We’ll figure this out. It’s just a small car.”

“Well, how about Naba driving and Arnold in the front,” Chris suggests, “And us three in the back?”

“Seems reasonable,” Kevin says. Connor opens his mouth as if to say something, but then thinks better of it and snaps it shut. 

“Okay,” Naba smiles, “Connor, you’re in the middle.”

“Wh- Naba!” Connor gapes incredulously, “Chris is like, a quarter of my height!”

“Ouch,” Chris says mildly.

“Yes,” Naba says impatiently, “But look at you, idiot. You’re practically a sheet of paper. Plus, all your height is in your legs anyway.”

“She’s not wrong,” Chris smiles, patting Connor on the back. Connor grumbles.

“Why can’t Kevin sit in the middle?”

“Because Kevin isn’t two dimensional. Get in the fucking car, Connor.”

 

* * *

 

The drive over to wherever Naba is taking them for dinner is squashed, but surprisingly enjoyable. Connor and Chris snag the old aux cord as soon as the engine starts, and before long the car is full of songs Kevin had only ever heard over mall radios, because they would have been considered too sinful to play in the Price household.

“FERGALICIOUS DEFINITION MAKES THEM BOYS GO LOCO,” Connor, Naba, and Chris scream as they pull onto a freeway and start going a little too fast to be legal. Arnold does some sort of interpretive dance from where he’s strapped into the front seat. Kevin’s right thigh is pressed against Connor’s, who is laughing along to the terrible bass system of Naba’s speakers. It’s a comforting warmth, and Kevin looks out the window, cheeks flushing slightly now that he’s aware of the close proximity.

“Okay, okay, enough Fergie,” Chris pants, slightly out of breath. “Kev, do you have any song requests?”

“Huh?” Kevin says, breaking out of his reverie to stare at them. “Oh. uh, no, that’s okay.”

“Come ooon,” Connor half-whines, dragging the ‘o’ out with a lazy grin, “There’s got to be at least one banger you’ve heard. What music do you listen to?”

“I don’t- I don’t really listen to music,” Kevin mutters, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence. He desperately wishes for this Fergie woman to make a return. Connor stares at him.

“Seriously?” He says, and when Kevin nods, “There must have been  _ something. _ ”

“No, not really,” Kevin replies, “Just church hymns and the... occasional Disney.”

There’s a lengthy pause, and then Chris says gently, “Kevin, do you like musicals?”

Kevin blinks. He’s never really given it much thought, but now that Chris has brought it to his attention, there isn’t a single Disney song he doesn’t know how to sing, or a dance sequence he hasn’t tried in his room with the door locked out of tween embarrassment, or a stage production he couldn’t remember from the magical journey to Orlando when he was nine.

“I- Yeah. I guess that’s true,” he manages to say, and Chris turns to Connor. They share a knowing look.

“Have you heard of High School Musical?” Connor asks, and Kevin sits up in recognition.

“I love High School Musical,” he blurts before he can register his enthusiasm, and Arnold chuckles slightly. Connor smiles at him, friendly, and Kevin’s heart tightens a bit for an unknown reason.

“I think we can work from that,” he says, and then Sharpay Evans starts singing and Kevin forgets he’s the outsider to their idiosyncratic little family, blending in with the energy of the others as they zoom down the freeway.

 

* * *

 

After the first dinner, Kevin starts joining the others for meals outside of work when they’re held. They normally happen once every week or fortnight, depending on how busy everyone is. Sometimes someone can’t make a day the rest can, but it’s not really a loss. Kevin’s had those problems too. However, he soon realises that no matter when it’s held, Connor always able to go. Kevin doesn’t stay late enough to see Connor leave, but it’s quickly apparent that outside of work, Connor doesn’t really have any other friends. He goes out drinking and bar hopping and dancing, but Chris, who’s living with him, comes into work on time everyday, leaving Connor to attempt a dignified appearance as he stumbles into the arcade an hour late.

Kevin’s never really thought about it, the fact that Connor, for all of his confidence and sass, might be lonely. God knows he understands that.

They’re friends now, and it’s comforting and a way Kevin’s never realised. Connor as a friend is just like Connor as an enemy, but this time Kevin has this certainty that every negative comment made by the other man is void of intentional malice. Plus, Connor starts doing more of his job, which is a bonus because Kevin has someone to talk to and well, because he no longer has to do twice the work.

It’s nice. It’s nice, and Kevin’s never been happier.

 

* * *

 

“It’s Chris’ womb removal day,” Connor hollers as soon as he waltzes into the break room one morning, “Everyone’s invited to his party at our place today, bring your own drinks, thank you.”

Kevin stares at him as Chris sighs from the back lockers, albeit with a fond smile on his face.

“Thanks, Connor,” he says, “You say things so eloquently.”

“Happy Birthday, Chris.” Kevin finally says, finding his tongue. “How old are you now?” Chris smiles widely at him.

“Thanks, Kev! I’m - ” he pauses to do some counting, “twenty-three now, Jesus. That’s old.”

“Only a year older than me,” Kevin shrugs, “I turn twenty-two this November.”

“Huh,” Connor says, “I’m already 22. That’s just weird now, to be honest. I thought I’d be 21 forever. Chris, we’re turning into old men,” he mock sobs, depositing all his body weight onto Chris, who holds him up good naturedly. 

“Come on,” Chris says to Connor, who looks like he’s trying his best to liquify, “Get up, asshole. We have little children to serve.”

“No,” Connor groans, “I can feel the arthritis coming. If I die, tell Naba to use my pension for the laser tag arena.”

“Okay, drama queen,” Chris dumps Connor onto the suspicious couch. Connor grunts. “I’ve got to go man the slushie machine. And at lunch we’re going to go talk to James.”

“James?” Kevin asks as Connor sits up alarmingly fast and says, “No, not James, please.”

“Yes,” Chris says firmly, “I don’t care if he tried to lock you in a walk-in freezer once, he’s my friend.” A pause. “Well, he’s someone who owes me a favour, anyway, and I don’t want to pay more than I need to for snacks tonight.”

“God fucking damn it,” Connor hisses, flopping back on the couch. Kevin clicks his tongue warningly at him, and gets a middle finger in return. It only slightly pisses him off.

 

* * *

 

At their lunch break, the three of them (Kevin was  _ kidnapped,  _ he didn’t want to go but Connor grabbed his arm and dragged him out anyway) made their way to a small cafe two doors down. From what Kevin could see through the thick glass of the door, there were a few wicker chairs and tables, along with a bread display along the window and the right wall. A counter sat at the far end of the shop, manned by someone reading  _ Florida Today _ , newspaper obscuring their face.

Chris pushes open the door. Well, tries to. It’s locked shut, despite the clearly stated open sign on the door and the lights on inside. Muffled lounge music can even be heard. He tries again, to no avail. Connor steps up to give it a try, before banging on the window. The person reading the newspaper shows no sign of noticing, flipping the page. 

“He’s such a  _ dick,” _ Connor growls, rolling up his already short sleeves and charging for the door. There’s a loud thump that rattles the bread stands. The person pauses, but then continues reading on without even looking up. “Son of a b -”

“Hey, Lindsay Lohan, shut it,” Chris sighs, walking just out of sight from the shop’s glass door and window. He takes out his mobile and dials a number, and then puts it on speaker. Moments later, a loud ringing sound echos from the cafe. The shrill noise pierces the air for a while, before stopping abruptly. On Chris’ phone, a voice crackles through.

“Kimbay’s Kafe, how can I help you,” the voice says with the most disinterest Kevin has ever heard in his life, and that’s saying something. He works with  _ Connor. _

“Hey! We were just wondering if you guys were open?” Chris asks cheerfully. There’s silence from the other end, punctuated by the muffled sounds of jazzy music.

“No, we’re closed,” The voice replies after a pause. “Come back some other time.”

“Oh, but I’m looking at your website and it says you’re open now.”

“Our oven’s are broken,” the voice grunts, just as the three of them hear the unmistakable ding of an oven timer going off and another voice from the kitchen humming.

“Oh, Kimbay’s there with you?” Chris says, taking the phone off speaker and marching in front of the door, “Does she know you’re sabotaging her business?”

Kevin and Connor follow him. Through the window, they can now see the person at the counter; a young man with his feet up, receiver tucked under his chin with the landline in his lap, and still flipping through the newspaper idly. His mouth moves, but they can’t quite make out the words. Chris sighs next to them, hand on his hip and foot tapping impatiently.

“James, it’s Chris. If you don’t let us in, I’ll just call Kimbay right now and ask her to check on her son, who’s working  _ so _ hard - ” 

The man at the counter grumbles and hangs up the phone. He pushes his glasses up and glares at the three of them through the glass.

“Jeez,” Kevin says, “And to think I thought you were passionate about not doing your job.”

“Don’t compare me to him,” Connor hisses, “That is such an insult.”

The man, James, slouches out from his seat and begrudgingly unlocks the door to the cafe. He’s about the same height as Kevin with the slouch, which is slightly alarming, and his expression coupled with his messy hair makes him look like he’s three seconds away from committing homicide.

“Thank you,” Chris says to him, and gets a noncommittal grunt in return. They file into the shop and take a seat at one of the wicker tables. James reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a battered notepad and pen. “What d’you want,” he says flatly, staring at them. His eyes lock with Kevin’s for a moment, before moving on to Connor, who bristles like a cat. James raises an eyebrow at him.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about getting stuff for a little gathering tonight. It’s my birthday, see,” Chris explains, leaning forward and looking up. 

“Happy Birthday,” James tells him, snapping the notepad open and closed a few times, “What do you need?”

“Not much, some pretzels, chips, like maybe a few cupcakes, and ooh, some of Kimbay’s choc chip cookies; they’re so good,” Chris rattles off, “Oh, and like thirty grams of weed.”

Kevin, who had gotten himself some complimentary water at this point, spits it out. “What?”

Connor snickers at him, “Calm down, Joseph Smith, you don’t have to take any.”

Kevin gapes at them. James looks at him, before shrugging and scribbling down something.

“I’ll get them to you after five,” he tells the group. Then, motioning to Kevin, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Chris nods, looking at Kevin’s wide eyes, “He’s just. Very straight laced.”

“Can we get edibles instead?” Connor suddenly says. They all turn to look at him. “What? I’d rather get those. Brownies are really good. They’re in fashion. They do wonders for my figure.”

“Con, you hate edibles,” Chris says. “And you sound like you’re trying to advertise chloroplast smoothies.”

“Yeah, but the landlord installed some new smoke alarms in the foyer and I’m not risking it,” Connor replies, nonchalantly glancing over to Kevin as he says that. Their eyes meet for a second, and then the moment passes and Connor’s looking at Chris.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Chris says, turning back to James, “Could we just get like a pan of brownies then?”

James sighs. “God, Connor, you’re such a wimp,” He mutters, scratching out something and rewriting it, before turning to go back to the counter. Connor glares at him.

“I’m not the one who’s so scared of alcohol that I can’t even handle the sight of a bottle - ” He shoots at James’ back just as Chris yells “HEY.”

James whips around so fast Kevin’s heart skips a beat. His face is absolutely furious, and Connor, next to Kevin falters just slightly.

“You’re such a cunt, Connor,” James growls, low and angry, “If Chris wasn’t here I swear I would kill you.”

“OKAY,” Chris barks, “Enough. Connor, apologize.”

“But he -”

_ “Apologize.” _

Connor stares at Chris, then then sighs. “I’m sorry, James.”

“Good.”

James straightens up, just a little, and Kevin can see that he’s easily taller than Kevin is, pushing maybe six-foot-three. He’s absolutely terrifying.

“I’ll tell Kimbay you’re all here,” he says, tone monotonous, before turning around and walking back into the kitchen. Chris turns to Connor, who leans back in his chair.

“You know not to bring it up,” he chastises, and Connor pouts like a child.

“I know, but - ”

“No buts. Remember 2014? I do not want a repeat, and I know you don’t either,” Chris says, tone gentle but firm.   


“Sorry,” Kevin interrupts, “but what just happened?”

“James and Connor don’t get along,” Chris tells him.

“No, I think I got that at the very least,” Kevin says, “Who is James, actually?”

“He’s a... friend,” Chris says, searching for a word and finally landing on bland ambiguity. “He got adopted by the owner of this cafe, Kimbay - She’s lovely, by the way, you’ll love her - when he was... fifteen? I think. His biological dad wasn’t the best, and that’s sugarcoating it very heavily. We met him around five years ago, when Connor did his whole dramatic self disownment and ran away. ”

“Oh,” Kevin says, then, “Dramatic self disownment?”

“Yeah, that’s unimportant now,” Connor interjects, “Point is, James is someone we know who gets Chris dubiously legal things. He literally only does it for Chris, though, so don’t go thinking he’s a bad person for that. Think he’s a bad person because he’s shitty towards me instead.”

“He’s only shitty because you guys hooked up once and then he converted to Mormonism and you gave him a black eye because you thought he did it as a  _ fuck you _ to your skills,” Chris sighs, “I swear I’ll never understand how you manage to think the whole world revolves around your sex life.”

“He’s a Mormon?” Kevin begins again, before going, “No, wait. Don’t answer that. Everytime you answer me I just end up with more questions.” He pointedly ignores the fact that his brain is screaming _James_ _has slept with Connor, holy heck, dude._

“That’s probably for the best,” Chris says, just as a plump, cheerful lady sashays out of the kitchen with a shrill exclamation of delight, gliding over to them and giving Chris a big hug.

“Ah, boys, it’s been so long!” She smiles wide, and Kevin is reminded of a jolly old mother, warm and inviting, “Who’s this new kid?” She asks, turning to Kevin with twinkling eyes.

“That’s Kevin,” Connor says, “He’s kind of a Mormon.”

“Oh, another!” Kimbay gasps, “My son and I are Mormons too, you know.”

“Well, yes,” Kevin manages to say, “Um, I’m not really a Mormon anymore, I think. I don’t know. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, don’t worry, baby,” Kimbay laughs, before turning around and picking some rolls from the display, “Heavenly Father has a plan for all of us, and if yours involves some confusion and doubt, then so be it.”

With that, she deftly wraps up the bread and gives one to each of them, and three to Connor.

“For that gorgeous young owner of your arcade and her boyfriend,” She says, “And give her father my love. Such a strong family, that one.”

“Yes, of course,” Connor nods. Kevin’s never seen him so polite. “They are.”

“Well, feel free to come by again any time,” Kimbay says as Chris leads them out the door, “I would ask that you stay longer, but your lunch break is almost over and I know you have to get back to work.”

“Thank you so much, Kimbay,” Chris says earnestly, “We’re so glad you’re just nearby.”

“Aw, baby, you know James and I would love to have you guys around anytime!” Kimbay laughs, waving them off, “Have a nice day!”

“She’s so nice,” Connor sighs, “But her son is such an asshole. What happened?”

“It’s not his fault, Con,” Chris says firmly, “You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Connor mumbles, taking a bite out of his roll. “Hey, do you think I’ll get in trouble if I ate Naba’s and Arnold’s share as well?

“Yes,” Kevin and Chris say without hesitation, and Connor rolls his eyes before suddenly snatching Kevin’s own roll and hightailing it down the parking lot.

“Guess I’ll just take yours then!” he calls as he runs off, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Hey!” Kevin sputters, instinct propelling him to run after Connor; he can hear Chris laughing behind them, see the wind whipping the fluffy red hair, and then Connor turns back with a bright, shit-eating grin, and Kevin, for a second, just one second, feels like he’s in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok cool!! we're on tumblr as @egg-o and @tvheit ✌️love u all so much for sticking with us and we're sorry for real life kinda getting in the way a bit :')


	13. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin wakes up an an apartment that isn't his. Also, dubious addictions, commandeering of public space for personal use, way too much overthinking, and the Powerpuff Girls.

Kevin wakes up the next morning on the floor with his face mushed into a fluffy carpet and a shocking headache, and thinks  _ Oh my gosh. _ The sun streams through the translucent curtains, and Kevin manages to sit up with a grunt. He squints around the place. It’s nice - a bit small but still tastefully decorated, and absolutely wrecked twelve ways to Christmas. Streamers and empty beer bottles are strewn around the room, along with red cups Kevin’s only ever seen in the movies that Jack would always put on when their parents left for an evening out. Kevin blinks. He has no idea where he is. A door opens to his right.

“Oh, you’re up!” Chris says from the doorframe. Kevin turns around to see his co-worker in an oversized blue shirt, hair sticking up all over the place and rubbing his eyes. Chris yawns slightly and smiles at Kevin through sleepy eyes. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Uh,” Kevin says as Chris moves towards the kitchen, “I woke up here.”

“Huh. You probably fell off the couch. Connor and Sadaka moved you up there when everyone was leaving,” Chris hums, filling a mug with water and sticking it into the microwave. Kevin feels as if the action is somehow wrong, but doesn’t have the brainpower to question it.

“Sadaka?” He asks instead, trying to pull himself up onto the couch. There’s a throw blanket tangled in his legs, and it take the good part of thirty seconds to remove himself from it’s embrace.

“Yes, one of our good friends,” Chris replies, “We had a party last night, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Kevin looks around. He remembers drinking something that made him loud, a steady thrum of people chattering, music from several different time periods and genres, and for some inexplicable reason, the Powerpuff Girls. “I - I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party before. Do people always dance that enthusiastically to Tchaikovsky? Because honestly, I don’t remember that being a thing in  _ Ten Things I Hate About Yo u .” _

“There’s some diverse music tastes,” Chris replies, “Sometimes, classical music can be a banger.”

“Right,” Kevin says, as the microwave goes off. Chris retrieves his mug and proceeds to dump packets of instant coffee into the now steaming water. He stirs it lightly. Kevin shakes his head a bit, and then gets up with some effort to make his way over to the kitchen.

“Chris, um, look, I -” A door creaks open, interrupting him. They both turn to look at the open bedroom and, by association, the dishevelled Connor standing there squinting angrily.

“Fuck, it’s bright,” He announces from where he’s leaning on the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him standing upright. “Morning, Chris. What are you doing here, Kevin?”

“He fell asleep on your couch, remember?” Chris says, sipping his black coffee. Connor looks at him, the open microwave, the empty packets lying on the counter, and then back to Chris. He groans, and rubs his temples like he’s getting a headache.

“Chris, I have a goddamn coffee press. Why do you have to behave like a barbarian?” He grumbles, releasing the wooden frame from his death grip and shoving his way into the kitchen. Kevin is forced to squash to one side until he’s pressed against the fridge. 

After the coffee press is going like it should be, Connor turns to Kevin. His hair is mussed with sleep, and there’s a light trace of a flush under his normally pale skin. Kevin swallows slightly, and edges out of the close proximity slowly.

“Do you want anything?” Connor asks, leaning on the counter, looking at him. Kevin blinks.

“Um. If you have water. That would be nice,” he manages to say.

“No, I don’t,” Connor replies as he turns to get out a garish, sparkling pink mug from a cupboard, and starts filling it up from the tap, “There’s no running water anywhere in the vicinity. We actually live in the middle of the Sahara where you drink sand to survive.” He puts the mug down in front of Kevin. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Kevin says, sipping it. A few seconds pass, where both Chris and Connor check their phones. Kevin finishes half the mug, and then decides to break the silence. “So, um, hey.”

“Hm?” Neither of them look up from their scrolling.

“What did I drink last night?” They both look up at that. “Uh, I don’t really remember a lot except that it made me really excited and I now have a headache. This is kind of a big deal, because you’re not supposed to drink when you’re a Mormon - but I’m not really a Mormon anymore, I guess, I just don’t  _ want _ to be the type of person that drinks? I think? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, though. Also, why is one of the only things I do remember the Powerpuff Girls?”

Chris and Connor stare at him.

“Oh,” Chris says, “Oh, honey. You weren’t drunk.”

“I wasn’t?”

“No,” Connor interrupts, staring at him, phone forgotten. His eyes pierce Kevin. “We bought Red Bull as mixers. You drank eight cans of it.”

“Oh,” Kevin says, relieved. Then, “What’s Redbull?”

“It’s an energy drink. Kind of like coffee, but much better to mix with vodka.” 

That’s not very Mormon-like either. Kevin has a split second of uncertainty, and then decides that caffeine is an acceptable rebellion from the church when compared to  _ alcohol. _

“That’s good. Thanks,” Kevin tells them, “What happened last night then?”

“I have videos,” Connor suddenly says, picking up the almost forgotten phone and scrolling, “Nothing incriminating,” He adds at Kevin’s horrified expression, “Just stupid shit I put on my Snapchat Story.”

He turns the phone screen to Kevin. A shaky, video pans around the small apartment, crammed with about twenty people all singing passionately to Celine Dion. Kevin spots himself and Arnold in the middle of the video, using empty beer bottles as fake microphones and passionately screeching along with others. He looks happy. Everyone looks happy. Kevin feels a fuzziness in his stomach. 

“That’s nice,” he says, as the video ends and another starts playing. There’s a good two minutes worth of short videos; Naba popping a party popper all over Chris to rancorous cheering, James sticking his head into the doorway and Connor’s tinny voice from behind the camera yelling  _ fuck off! _ as James flips him off, two women Kevin doesn’t recognise wiping the floor with Connor in some racing video game, and then one of him, drinking from a blue and white can as people surrounding him yell  _ Chug! Chug! Chug!  _ And then cheering when he finishes, with a big, idiotic grin on his face. 

Despite the conservative conditioning Kevin has in him since young about the sinful nature of parties, with their alcohol, sex, and drugs, he feels happy. Proud, maybe. His first party, and it wasn’t anything like what his parents made them out to be. It was so much more fun, and so much better.

“There’s more on Chris’ story,” Connor says, handing his phone to Kevin, “Just click on his icon there, I gotta go take a piss.”

Kevin takes the phone as the redhead ambles off towards the bathroom, and clicks on Chris’ icon. There are more videos, some images, one notable one of Chris and Connor with the flash on where Connor looks deathly pale and he’s clutching a Powerpuff Girls mug that is mid spill. The liquid inside is a muddy brown. Kevin looks over to the floor and sure enough, there’s several paper towels placed down on a stain, soaked through. That’s probably why the Powerpuff Girls got stuck in his memory.

The next video that plays is much quieter. The music is muted, and there’s only one or two people in the room. It’s Chris, Kevin, and Connor, all looking out Connor’s open window. Video Kevin’s holding the Powerpuff Girl mug and laughing at something Connor is saying, but the sound is muffled by Chris dropping the phone. Before he does, though, Kevin gets a clear look at Video Connor and Video Kevin grinning at each other. Video Connor looks open, friendly, and his eyes sparkle as he looks at Video Kevin. Video Kevin looks at Video Connor as if he’s never seen something so beautiful in his life. He looks like a lovestruck idiot. The video ends abruptly and Kevin stares at the weird interface of the app, face burning. 

Well, if it wasn’t obvious before, it was now.

“Oh my gosh,” he says aloud, forgetting that there were still other people present.

“What’s wrong?” Chris frowns at him worriedly, as the sound of a flushing toilet can be heard and Connor walks back in, scratching his head. “Kevin?”

“Uh,” Kevin says, brain scrambling to find a cover up, and locates one in the form of three superpowered children, “You had a mug. A Powerpuff Girls mug.”

“Oh, that,” Connor says, “I don’t know how I got it, honestly.”

“Connor made a fifty ingredient cocktail in it last night,” Chris adds helpfully, “That’s probably why you’re thinking of them.”

“He did what?” Kevin gapes. Connor rolls his eyes. “I drank from that mug!”

“Yes, after I finished it all, idiot,” Connor sighs, “You drank the water I had in it, called it ‘spicy’, and then nearly fell out the window. I don’t want to know what would have happened if you  _ were _ drunk.”

“Thank gosh,” Kevin says, thinking about Video Kevin’s dumb, awestruck face, “I don’t think I want to either.”

* * *

It’s mid August, which means that the hottest month  _ should _ be over but suburban Florida is not bound by the predictions of meteorologists and as a result, is still something like the inside of a furnace. Kevin’s terrible flat comes with a grand total of zero cooling units and traps heat like a champ, which means that he ends up trying to spend as little time inside as possible. Some of the gnomes have migrated out onto his porch along with a wicker chair that seems like it’s been through several world wars. Technically, Kevin doesn’t _ own _ a porch so much as he turns the shared wooden landing outside the row of flats into one. It has ceiling fans that run every day from eight a.m. to nine p.m. It’s understandable.

He’s also developed an unfortunate liking for RedBull. Once, he makes the mistake of downing two just before going to sleep and physically sees Satan manifest on top of his washing machine. When he recalls this in shaky detail to Arnold, he laughs at him.

“Y’know, I’ve never heard of someone getting an acid trip from energy drinks, but hey, it’s cheaper,” Arnold says, and Kevin resolves to never drink RedBull before bed again.

The one saving grace in his life other than tasty drinks containing dubious stimulants is the air conditioning in the arcade, which had been recently fixed. Granted, it only has one setting now that works (which is something like negative thirteen degrees) and it makes a constant noise like a shrieking cat, but it cools the place down really well. Kevin’s never really felt the urge to go to work before, but everytime he leaves the arctic embrace of FunZone he immediately wishes he was back inside. He takes to arriving to work earlier and earlier and staying just a few minutes later. 

He feels bad for breaking his sleep routine when one night he stays all the way until closing time at ten, but consoles himself with the fact that in the current heat, he wouldn’t have gone to sleep anyway. Plus, he got to lock up with Connor, which was a first, and they said goodbye in the parking lot like  _ friends  _ do, and Connor smiled at him, and -

_ Huh, _ Kevin stares at the mini food keychains he’s been sorting. It’s weird, thinking about Connor as someone likeable. Connor’s branded into a part of Kevin’s mind as  _ Big Ex-Mormon Jerk _ and that’s not going away anytime soon, even though they’re friends by now, but it has to battle with the other part of Kevin that’s clanging pots and pans together every time he even so much as sees the redhead  _ breathe  _ that’s going  _ HIS HAIR IS FLUFFY HIS EYES ARE LOVELY YES HE MAY HAVE RUN HENRY INTO YOUR SHINS BY ACCIDENT TWO DAYS AGO BUT LOOK AT HIS SMILE _ and its. Distracting, to say the least.

Also, this realisation that yes, maybe he would like to have romantic relations with Connor McKinley, makes Kevin, as a side result, a homosexual. It’s not as bad as he feared it would be. It’s confronting, sure, because it’s all very up in the air and confusing on how he stands with the Church without even adding homosexuality into the mix. He’s had a single girlfriend before; Katie, in sixth grade. She wrote him a love letter, they held hands once and then he broke up with her by running away and crying when she tried to kiss him. Then, there was no more time for romantic relationships because he threw himself headfirst into studying and serving the Church, all the way up until his mission where, pardon his language, everything went royally to shit. 

And now he’s attracted to a guy.

“Maybe I was never meant to be a good Mormon,” Kevin mumbles to himself, staring at a tacky plastic mini burger as it sways back and forth on a cheap silver chain. “God has decided that my calling is to be a gay, caffeine addict working minimum wage in the middle of suburbia.”

The burger doesn’t reply. It just keeps swaying. Kevin gives up with a sigh and drops it into a barely filled prize jar. Connor and Chris are busy up front; it’s a Saturday and everyone with little kids and no self respect is in FunZone, mooching off the free air con and having their heads pounded with disco beats from terrible games. Kevin stares woefully at the wall of the storeroom.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to like Connor, it’s just the fact that Connor is - well, he’s  _ Connor _ \- which makes everything twenty times harder than it should be. Connor is, fundamentally, a huge jerk, full of sarcasm and always has a comeback, and isn’t afraid of treating others like crap. Kevin has no idea how he had managed to fall in love with  _ that. _ But on the other hand, below the annoying exterior, Connor does care for his friends. He’s fiercely loyal to Naba and Chris, and has genuine fun with Arnold. Now that Kevin’s in this small circle of friendship, Connor’s been treating him with the same teasing manner he’s always done, but there’s no malice. And every so often, Kevin catches Connor looking over at him across the arcade, whereupon they exchange quick smiles before going back to their jobs.

Connor may be a bad person, Kevin thinks, but he can’t stop wondering why. It’s pretty obvious that Connor’s had a rough life - he’s working in an  _ arcade, _ for gosh’s sake - and that’s led him to become the dry, apathetic person Kevin knows today. But he doesn’t seem bothered in any way by his past, and that’s what Kevin doesn’t understand. Connor isn’t weighed down by whatever happened before he arrived at FunZone. Maybe, Connor’s always been this kind of dickish person, and whatever he’s gone through has just amplified it. Maybe he’s actually a super girly, sweetheart of a boy who’s in love with unicorns and musical theatre and he just wants someone to look past his tough act and see the  _ true _ him. Maybe Kevin’s going mad.

He just needs to think about it more. If he thinks about it more his head might implode. Kevin stares at a stain on the wall desperately, pleading it for answers. It gives him none, so Kevin instead starts to compartmentalize his thoughts.

He likes Connor. He maybe even loves him. Connor is his friend. It’s unknown if Connor would ever want to be more than friends.

_ Connor thinks you’re hot,  _ a part of his brain adds helpfully.  _ He’s said so multiple times. _

Kevin turns red. Good to know.

He’s just about to start writing the list down when Connor himself slams the door to the storeroom open, rattling several shelves and causing Kevin to get a sudden spike in his blood pressure, and starts pelting Kevin with foam bullets from a Nerf gun. Kevin would later learn that Arnold had stumbled across several toy sets, each with four guns and several dozen bullets, and immediately brought it to the arcade and forced them all into a free-for-all deathmatch, customers included. But for now, as he yelps in surprise and Connor laughs maniacally with no mercy, all he can think of is  _ yup, this guy is still a massive jerk.  _ _ God, I love him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are heating up in the connor mckinley fandom, population: kevin price.
> 
> we can't thank you guys enough for sticking around for this dumb fic goddamn also i wish you guys could see some of the snippets snove has written i lose my shit laughing
> 
> as always, you can talk to us at @egg-o or @tvheit on tumblr!!


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